Broken
by Anne Fatalism Dilettante
Summary: Arthur Kirkland is a university student who struggles to cope with scars from the past; Alfred Jones is an advice columnist who only wishes to help others despite having his own problems to fix. Can the broken ever be mended? USxUK, other pairings included. AU.
1. Chapter 1

**Okay. To be honest, I'm a bit embarrassed about writing a story about US and UK. A couple of my friends aren't supportive of them, and I was thinking stuff like "Crap, what would they think about me if they know I support them - and it's yaoi-ish, no less!" But, well, in the end I just thought that I should have the privilege to write about whichever pairing I want. So, here you go. My first Hetalia fanfic.**

**P/S: The age of the characters range from fifteen to their mid-twenties.**

* * *

Epic Burger Hero,

How do you get away from your ex-girlfriend who is something of a stalker? Doorknobs and any form of regular human reasoning don't seem to work.

_**Vodka**_

* * *

Vodka,

Woah! That's some tough, creepy shit you've got there. Rope in some friends to help you out of this mess – be together with them as much as possible so that that crazy chick won't have a chance to corner you. If that doesn't work, you're better off moving to some place far, far away – preferably Siberia or something.

_**Epic Burger Hero**_

* * *

Greetings, Epic Burger Hero,

I do apologize for the trouble. Thank you for taking the time to read this. I have been constantly reprimanded by my friends that my diet is unhealthy as it contains too much sodium. What do you think I should do?

_**Manga**_

* * *

Manga,

Dude, it wasn't any trouble! Try burgers, though. They're amazing!

_**Epic Burger Hero**_

* * *

"Arthur Kirkland? Dr. Zwingli will see you now."

Arthur folded the newspaper in his hands and stood up to follow the smiling nurse, sighing inaudibly as he did. _The hospital was the very last place he wanted to be._

It had been his concerned younger brother, Peter, who had arranged the appointment with the psychiatrist. Peter had been convinced that Arthur had needed it – an outlet to release his anger, or any form of pent-up emotions. It was an unnecessary move, and Arthur wasn't pleased.

Something hard elbowed him in the waist. It was Peter, who was giving a stern stare.

Arthur ran his fingers over his hair in frustration. "You shouldn't have done this, Peter. This is the_ fifth_ psychiatrist you've set me up with, and you always insist on coming along."

"You'd just skip out on all of them if I weren't here," Peter replied, determination written on his child-like face. "Come on, just go _in_ already."

Arthur groaned in defeat, allowing himself to follow the nurse into the psychiatrist's room. It was tastefully furnished, filled with both classical and modern designs. Dr. Zwingli, a young man with sharp eyes, was seated on a leather chair. He motioned for Arthur to have a seat, to which Arthur reluctantly did.

"Arthur Kirkland, yes?" Dr. Zwingli cast Arthur a careless glance. "What brings you here today?"

Arthur glanced into those jade-colored eyes, a mixture of trepidation and wistfulness blooming in his chest. For a moment, Arthur wanted to spill out everything – and by everything, he meant _everything_.

He wanted to talk about how things had been like since the death of his parents occurred, and he wanted to blurt out on how utterly helpless he felt when it came to taking care of Peter – the only one who was important to him left. Arthur wanted to talk about how desperately lonely the nights were, and how difficult it was to integrate back into a normal life – or society, for that matter.

But those were things that he never shared with anyone, not even Peter – so why the hell would he speak about them to some stranger of a psychiatrist?

He _couldn't _tell Peter, of course. He was Arthur Kirkland, the strong, dependable big brother. He was the one who could find a way out of everything – and he was supposed to be coping with everything just fine.

Somehow, Peter must have seen through it – that the emotional scars his brother bore were more than what was visible to the eye.

To hell with that. Arthur would do anything to convince everyone that he was alright no matter what.

"Listen well, because I won't say it again," Arthur began. "I wouldn't be here if it weren't for my little brother, who's concerned that I'll snap and turn into some kind of hideous monster in time to come. To be honest, I feel perfectly fine." At Dr. Zwingli's raised eyebrow, he carried on, "Yes, I kid you not. It's wonderful. Life's wonderful. There's nothing that worries me – which means that I should be leaving as soon as possible."

"But," Dr. Zwingli retorted, "Your little brother feels that something is wrong."

"That's just what brothers do – they read too much into things," Arthur said with exaggerated patience. "Maybe you should talk to him instead, since he's the one feeling insecure about my emotional state."

Dr. Zwingli tapped the clipboard in his hands with a pen several times before setting it down carefully. "Are you certain that you have no concerns? Nothing at all?"

_I'm a total emotional wreck,_ Arthur thought. _One that no one really should approach_. However, what came out was a confident, loud "no".

"Well, then I suppose you can leave," Dr. Zwingli said dismissively. Arthur vaguely heard him mutter something like, "Hmm, what a waste of time that was…"

When Arthur left the room, he found Peter reading the newspaper's advice column – the same one he had been reading minutes ago. He smiled a little, tapping his younger brother at the top of his head.

Peter jumped, his sailor-styled hat flopping onto the ground. Arthur stooped down to pick it up, abruptly realizing that was Peter glaring at him.

"...What?"

"You were in there for barely _five_ minutes!" Peter wailed, grabbing his hat and pounding mock punches into Arthur's chest. "That happened to the rest of the psychiatrists too! Are you even taking this seriously?"

"Not really," Arthur answered truthfully.

Peter pouted. "You're hopeless, brother!"

"Perhaps. Shall we return home?"

Peter sighed gloomily. "I s'pose. There's not much point in staying here any longer. Oh, look, it's raining."

And indeed it was. The rain was coming down in torrents. Arthur frowned. He hadn't brought an umbrella along, and it wouldn't do them good to sprint home in the downpour. There wasn't much of a choice but to wait until it lessened. In the mean time, what were they going to do?

"Let's go to the next door café for some food," Arthur suggested.

Peter's expression lightened up at the mention of food. "Let's!"

The café was small but incredibly cosy. Peter curled up on a seat by the window, munching on scones while catching up on the advice column he was reading earlier on. Arthur had ordered a cup of Earl Grey, and was watching the streets outside with disinterest.

"This guy is funny," Peter giggled. "Are burgers that amazing?"

Arthur blinked, wondering what Peter was talking about before remembering what the columnist – the one named Epic Burger Hero – had written.

"And…moving to Siberia! What a riot!" Peter laughed, not caring how bits of scones were flying out of his mouth.

Arthur sighed, handing his younger brother a napkin. "What have I ever told you about talking with your mouth full? Besides, they really should get another columnist. Ideas as far-fetched and preposterous as that are simply inappropriate for the press."

"But he's funny," Peter said, accepting the napkin with a cheeky grin. "He'll probably make the ones who write in laugh about their own problems too!"

"He's probably just off his rocker," Arthur grumbled.

"He might be Dr. Zwingli in disguise!" Peter all but sang out, causing the customers in the café to cast curious looks at them.

Arthur chuckled. "I highly doubt it."

The rest of the hour was spent discussing on what type of person Epic Burger Hero would be like in real life. Peter decided that he would be kind, helpful and incredibly cheerful – whereas Arthur settled for the fact that Epic Burger Hero was most likely a dim-witted, annoying dunce who suffered from a severe case of ADHD.

"Still, he'd be helpful," Peter sighed wistfully. "He might even be able to help _you_."

Arthur stiffened. He set his teacup down onto the table carefully before cautiously asking, "What do you mean?"

"I mean, those psychiatrists don't really help…so…"

"Peter," Arthur snapped, emphasizing the next few words. "There. Is. Nothing. Wrong. With. Me, do you understand that? I don't know why you insist that there has to be an issue! You've been doing this ever since…" His words trailed off, and Arthur realized that he was taking his anger out on his younger brother – his _fifteen year-old brother_, who was merely worried about him. "Damn, never mind. Forget it. Just – just stop doing that, okay?"

Peter didn't seem to be offended. In fact, he didn't even seem surprised. He merely sat there, watching his brother with an undecipherable expression on his face.

Arthur gave up.

"Come on, Peter, we're going home."

* * *

_Home_ was a tiny apartment, with two bedrooms, a bathroom, and a kitchen. As both had a trait of being neat and orderly, _home_ was also neat and pleasantly comfortable despite the lack of living space.

"Arthur? The electricity bill for this month has arrived."

"Alright. I'll have a look at it later."

"It's a bit on the high side though," Peter mumbled softly. "I suppose we should cut back on turning on the heater so often…"

"Don't worry about it. We have enough," Arthur replied.

Thanks to some of the money his parents had left behind, the two brothers had been able to live a somewhat decent life. Arthur had even be able to allow Peter to go to school – and as for himself, Arthur was glad that he had worked hard enough in order to secure a scholarship in the university.

Peter had offered to take up a couple of part-time jobs in order to support the household, but Arthur hadn't allowed it. _No way was he going to let his brother fret about financial worries._ It was only about cutting down on the materialistic expenses, and adopting a simpler lifestyle – which Arthur knew he could do. In return, he wanted Peter to experience a normal teenage lifestyle as much as possible – and that meant allowing Peter to have new clothes, girlfriends, and all the food that he could eat.

"Brother…? I think there's someone at the door."

Peter was right. Someone was knocking on the door, and the _thumps_ were impatient and increasing in volume. Arthur scrambled to his feet, wondering who it could be on a rainy day like this.

"Yo, Arthur!" The door swung open to reveal a silver-haired man with garnet eyes, whose grin stretched like a Cheshire Cat. Without waiting for a response, he stepped over the threshold.

"What the hell do you want, Gilbert?" Arthur asked bluntly, eyebrows twitching at how the newcomer took off his wet jacket and casually flung it over the couch. Heck, that git was practically _dripping_ all over the floor!

Gilbert sank onto the couch with a grunt. "Damned weather. I had to make this trip to your place because you don't even own a fuckin' cell phone…"

"Skip the obscenities and state your purpose," Arthur said coolly.

"Ah, hell. Might as well get it over and done with," Gilbert muttered. "So, I'm organizing this awesome party on Saturday. You're invited."

It wasn't the first time that Gilbert had extended him an invitation to parties. The Beilschmidts were rich, Arthur knew. An extravagant lifestyle was something that Gilbert indulged himself in. That resulted in him being quite the party animal, often organizing outrageously large-scale parties that were more wild than civil.

There was no question about it. Arthur's decision was made in a second. "I can't make it. Sorry."

"You always say that! What about taking that stick outta your ass and try loosening up for once, huh?" Gilbert cackled, laughing at his own joke.

"I'm perfectly fine without attending any of your…flamboyant events," Arthur replied stiffly.

"You should go," Peter interrupted. He had merely been watching their conversation quietly from a corner, but something had to be done when things came down to this.

Arthur's emerald eyes widened. He knew his mouth had hung open, because he had to snap it shut again. Did Peter just imply that he, Arthur Kirkland, should participate in Gilbert's wild parties?

Apparently, Peter had. "I'm no longer a child, brother. It's only one night – I can take care of myself."

Gilbert grinned and reached over to pat Peter on the head. "See? Even your lil' brother supports me!"

"No bloody way," Arthur snapped. "Peter, I am staying home on Saturday night – and that's final. Gilbert, get out of here. _Now._"

However, it was obvious that Gilbert wasn't about to give up. "But everyone's turning up! Feliciano, Francis, Antonio, Ivan – fuck it, even _Kiku's_ coming. You gonna stay here in this moldy apartment forever, or what?"

"Brother," Peter said softly. "How long has it been since you've been out with your friends?"

Arthur's smart retort died on his lips. Peter's question rang hollowly in his head – _how long, indeed? Months? Years?_ Even as a young boy, Arthur was never a socialite – and after the death of his parents, Arthur had retreated even further into his shell. He solely devoted his life in ensuring that his brother was well taken care of – nothing else had really mattered.

"W-what are you talking about, Peter? I just saw my friends at the university yesterday."

But no, Arthur knew that wasn't fooling Peter. Not one bit.

Gilbert wisely chose to remain silent, watching the next dialogues unfold.

"That's a lie, and you know it." Peter folded his arms, something he only did when he was nervous. "I mean, how long was it since you've really hung out with them – having a good time and…you know, just being _happy_?"

Arthur sighed tiredly. He didn't want to have this conversation right now. Honestly, all he wanted to do was to shoo Gilbert out of the door, calm Peter down, and go back to whatever work he had to do. "I'm happy with you here, Peter. Isn't that enough?"

"But you need them," Peter pleaded. "Your friends. I want you to go and have fun. Please?"

Gilbert smirked at how Arthur seemed to deflate under Peter's hopeful gaze. Things were turning out fine after all.

"Alright," Arthur relented. "I'll go. Satisfied?"

"It'll be awesome," Gilbert said, obviously delighted. "You might even meet the love of your life or something. That's what those fairy tales you read are about, right?"

_"GET OUT!"_

* * *

Alfred F. Jones hummed cheerily, munching on a burger from McDonalds. The weather had been increasingly temperamental nowadays – granted, he wasn't too used to London's weather. Sometimes it was just a little too dreary for his liking, and some of the people spoke in a weird, formal way that he couldn't really comprehend. It was bizarre.

He liked his new job, though. Writing for an advice column was a lot of fun, and his colleagues got along with him pretty well. There wasn't anything else that he would really ask for, really.

His phone buzzed with a new message. Alfred blinked and set his burger down onto a table, reaching into his pocket.

**From: **German Guy

**Message:** My brother happens to be hosting a party this Saturday evening. Would you care to come?

_Brother…?_ Oh, wait, that would be Gilbert. Alfred grinned. Ludwig was one of the reporters for the papers, and often mentioned about Gilbert to him.

**To:** German Guy

**Message:** Definitely! Say hi to Gil for me.

There, that settled it.

Alfred continued on his meal. He couldn't wait for Saturday now. Some part of him knew it was definitely gonna rock!

* * *

**Okay okay ohmygod. First off, I'm sorry if the mentioning of ADHD or psychiatrists offends anyone. Seriously, it's all just for the story. Promise. Secondly, there won't be too much yaoi in the story - well, nothing that exceeds little T over there. Thirdly, I'm neither English nor American - so if some of the accents written here are out, pleaaaaase just tell me. **

**Ps: Anyone can guess who those people who write in for advice are? :D**

**Pss: Final sentence was changed with advice from Hoshi19 and The Bitter Kitten. Thank you! :)  
**

**Read, and review! :)**

**- Anne**


	2. Chapter 2

**I...need some Hetalia friends. :( No one I know in real life seems to care about it. /shot**

**In this chapter, you see a little of Arthur's past. And then, US and UK shall meet. [cue dramatic music] **

* * *

_Arthur ran as frantically as he could, praying that his legs wouldn't give way. The thick clouds of smoke burned his throat, making him choke and sputter. He had to get out, he desperately did – but he couldn't. There didn't seem to be a way out._

_"PETER!" Arthur roared, his voice cracking from the sheer force of yelling. "MUM! DAD! WHERE ARE YOU?"_

_But no one responded – and all Arthur could hear was the crackling flames. They swirled and towered in a mess of red and orange, threatening to smother him with its heat. Arthur could feel his skin beginning to blister with the fire closing in – it was close, the fire was far too close –_

_And Arthur screamed in agony __–_ the pain of being burned alive hurt. It hurt so much. 

_Pandemonium. It was hell. Arthur was certain he had just seen how hell was like._

_But there was no way he could just give up for good. Arthur ran past the falling closets, stumbling over a blazing carpet – pure terror washed through him, and he gasped some more, feeling his lungs constrict – there was barely any oxygen left –_

_And then Arthur was bursting into the open night, feeling the cool London air wash over him. Everything was a blur – there were flashing red lights, and screams were echoing around him.  
_

_A lone figure rushed into his arms. It was a person Arthur had never been too relieved to see. _

_"Peter," he whispered. "Peter, you made it out…" The tears were streaming down Arthur's face, which was covered with soot and smudged by dirt. His younger brother had made it out, but…_

_…He was certain that everyone else was dead. They had died, burned alive in the mansion that was once their home._

_And deep inside, Arthur knew that it had been his fault. He had killed them, and he knew it._

_Now there was nothing left __–_ nothing left but the pain.  


_Arthur's head spun, and his vision blurred. It hurt, it hurt so much –_

* * *

Arthur awoke abruptly to a fist smashing into his chest.

"GET UP!" Peter yelled, his child-like voice reverberating throughout the room. "Don't you have a party to go to?"

Arthur groaned, leaning over to check the clock. It was only five in the evening. _There was an entire hour left to get ready, wasn't there?_ With that, Arthur ignored Peter and rolled to the end of the bed, returning to his nap.

But Peter remained jumped onto the bed without hesitation, landing smartly on Arthur's legs.

"_Geeeeeeeeeeeeet uuuuuuuuuuuuuup!"_

That had done the trick. Arthur shot up so quickly that Peter fell off the bed and crashed onto the floor. Peter wailed in pain, clutching the back of his head tenderly. Just then, he stared up at his elder brother, realizing that something was amiss.

"…Why are you sweating?"

"Huh?" Arthur frowned, wondering what Peter was talking about.

"Your face…"

Puzzled, Arthur reached up to touch his face. It was wet. How _odd._ He hadn't turned the heater up that high, did he? Confused, Arthur stumbled out of bed, heading into the bathroom for a shower.

Showers, especially hot ones, always woke him up and soothed his frazzled nerves. Arthur lathered some shampoo onto his gold locks, sighing inaudibly.

_Damn Gilbert and his parties. _

Arthur didn't want to go. He desperately wanted to stay at home and curl up on the bed, reading a classic or just flipping through the channels on the TV. The mere thought of a party irritated him – and now he was going to one, all because Peter had _asked_ him to.

Oh, well. If this was all it took to make Peter happy, then so be it. He would go to the party, stay in a corner, come home and tell Peter he had a great time. There. Mission accomplished.

That wouldn't be so hard, would it?

* * *

_The music was too loud._

Arthur squeezed past the massive mob, trying to head his way into the mansion where he could at least find a quiet spot to sit down. The party was in full swing – there was a mash of bodies on the lawn, with each individual dancing and gyrating in tune to the beat. The pool not too far away glowed in the night, crammed full with teenagers splashing and swimming about.

Arthur scowled. It was an entire gathering filled with blithering idiots, and he _despised_ it. There wasn't even anyone that he recognized – some of the faces looked familiar, but other than that he had no idea who the hell they were.

"Ve! Arthur, you came!"

Ah. _Finally,_ Arthur thought, _an acquaintance._ He nodded at Feliciano, who seemed to be bouncing on his heels in excitement. The Italian seemed to be in good spirits, and was practically hanging off Ludwig's arm. Ludwig, who was normally serious, seemed relaxed despite the wildness around him.

"Bruder told me you were coming. We're glad to have you," Ludwig said.

"Ah…thank you," Arthur replied, shifting around uncomfortably. "It is…quite a _large_ affair."

Ludwig seemed to have sensed Arthur's discomfort. "If you prefer less crowded areas, perhaps you should enter the mansion."

"I shall. Thank you," Arthur mumbled, squeezing past them. The entrance of the mansion wasn't too far ahead. Feliciano gave Arthur a cheery wave, before turning to Ludwig and cheering about tomatoes and pasta.

Arthur smiled a little. _So Feliciano and Ludwig were into each other, huh?_ They had all been in the same classes throughout the years, and Arthur had always noticed that the Italian and the German were always close. Ludwig was never one for public displays of affection – though Feliciano had obviously changed that.

Before Arthur could go a little further, the _unacceptable_ happened. A hand cupped the back of his jeans, giving it a firm squeeze.

Arthur froze.

Someone had groped his ass.

_Someone had just fucking groped his ass._

Arthur whirled around furiously, feeling the blood rush to his head in anger. That wasn't accidental, and he knew it. Who the hell was it? _Who?_

But the culprit, whoever it was, had long vanished from sight. All that was left was a mass of teenagers, screaming into the night like the hooligans Arthur knew they were. He let out a stream of profanities and continued making his way through the crowd, feeling violated.

A mini bar had been set up near the kitchen, and Arthur made his way towards it. There weren't any other places he could be at anyway – the living room was filled with a group of boys playing poker, and Gilbert was one of them. Arthur tried to slink away unnoticed, but Gilbert looked up from his cards at that moment and caught Arthur's eyes.

"ARTHUR! You came to my awesome party for once!"

"And it shall be the last," Arthur shot back haughtily. "In fact, it'll probably be a good idea for me to leave now."

Gilbert just laughed, returning to his cards. _Damned albino._

Just then, Arthur found a heavy arm slinging across his shoulders. What _the?_ Arthur had been expecting it to be someone else he knew, perhaps Francis or Antonio – instead, all Arthur saw was _blue. _It was a bright, baby blue – the sort of blue that belonged to blue skies, skies that London rarely had.

"Dude!" The stranger crowed, and Arthur cringed a little at how cheerful his voice sounded, "Going so soon?"

Arthur was so surprised that he stared for two seconds before roughly shoving the other teenager away.

_Big mistake._

The teenager had been holding a large cup of Coke. His eyes widened into a childish expression, watching helplessly as the sweet, sticky liquid splashed onto Arthur's shirt. Arthur stood there in a daze, feeling the cold wetness seep through the shirt onto his chest. He patted the wet spot experimentally, unsure of how to react.

"Woah there!" The stranger exclaimed. "Ya' okay? Sorry about that, man!"

Arthur growled – this boy was _loud_, and that pronounced American accent was grating on his nerves. He watched at how the American flailed about, attempting to clean up the mess by dabbing tissues at Arthur's chest.

It was a little too close for comfort, and it had been too long since Arthur had engaged in any actual kind of physical contact. He hated to say it, but the American's action was making him feel embarrassed. In an act of irritation, Arthur grabbed the teenage boy's arm, making him pause and look up in surprise.

"Forget it," Arthur said. "I'm going home."

"W-what? No way! At least lemme help you wipe _that_ off."

"It's just a shirt. I'll clean up after I get home."

The American pouted. Arthur's eyebrows furrowed a little – the sandy-haired teenager was actually _pouting_, reminding Arthur of a puppy that he had once seen in a pet shop. To hell with that – Arthur wouldn't fall for such tricks. He stomped away, ignoring the small niggle of guilt that was working its way into his heart.

But the teenager wasn't giving up. "C'mon!" He said, yanking Arthur back by the scruff of his shirt.

"You…you _imbecile_!" Arthur roared. "What do you think you're doing?"

"Mm-hmm," the American hummed breezily. "By the way, I'm Alfred. Alfred Jones. You?"

"Alfred, if you do not let go of me this instant, I swear to God that I will…"

Alfred scoffed, shooting the blond an exasperated glance. "Calm down a little, Englishman! I'm just gonna take you to the shower."

"...Do not ever call me _that_ again."

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Alfred sang, pushing Arthur into the bathroom. "I'll get you something to wear, so just hold on a sec."

Arthur groaned. It was going to be his _second_ shower in just a few hours. He rested his head against the wall, allowing the hot water to flow across his body.

After this, he was going to leave. He would leave, and never approach any of these people for a few weeks at least. A night like this was just too much for his sanity.

A knock jolted Arthur out of his reverie. He stepped out of the tub, wrapping a towel around his waist before opening the door by a crack.

"Here," Alfred said, pushing a shirt into Arthur's hands. "Wear this."

Arthur took the shirt and cringed at the picture on it, which was a large neon-colored burger with a smiley face on it. _Definitely not something he would wear in public. _Still, Arthur pulled the shirt on, realizing that it vaguely smelled of cinnamon – which was…actually quite…_appealing, _he had to admit_._

"Thanks. Who does this belong to?"

"It's mine," Alfred answered. "I brought an extra along in case I got wet in the pool."

Arthur stepped out of the bathroom, shooting Alfred a glare as the American burst into laughter. Alfred couldn't help it – the blond boy looked absolutely adorable. The shirt was large, and seemed to hang on Arthur like some sort of over-sized plastic bag. The cheery hamburger motif on it didn't fit his sour scowl either, but Alfred found the whole combination strangely cute. His blond hair was wet, laying flat on his forehead and almost obscuring that pair of emerald eyes.

"So," Arthur broke the silence, "I'm going home now. Move aside."

Alfred blinked and took a step backwards, realizing he had been blocking the Englishman's pathway the entire time. "W-wait! What's your name?"

"…Arthur."

"Cool! So, Artie, what say you stay a little more for some drinks?"

Arthur turned around, green eyes blazing. _"What?"_

"I mean, c'mon! You're gonna leave after meeting a new friend? That's just rude, man," Alfred said, cracking what Arthur dubbed a shit-eating grin.

"Firstly, we are _not_ friends," Arthur retorted, jabbing a finger into Alfred's chest. Alfred fell another step backwards, his mouth in an 'o' of surprise. "Secondly, I can't believe you actually called _me_ rude when _you_ were the one who caused this whole trouble in the first place!"

Alfred held up his hands in surrender, shaking his head helplessly. "Okay, okay! Geez, I just thought you might've wanted to talk or something…"

_I don't need friends,_ Arthur thought darkly. _I can live without them._ "What makes you think I wanted to?"

Alfred cocked his head and took a good look at Arthur's angry face. That intense expression of his was pretty _breathtaking_ – wait, no. Wrong thought there. It was damn clear that Arthur was a bitter person, judging at how he spoke an acted. Alfred noticed that there were walls, too – thick, tall, and heavy ones. They had probably been there for a long, long time.

_What lay behind those walls, then? _

Frowning at Alfred's scrutiny, Arthur growled out an irritated, "What?"

Alfred grinned widely, choosing not to answer. He grabbed Arthur by the arm and hollered, "To the bar then!"

Arthur blanched at the physical contact but realized by now that once Alfred was persistent, there was nothing else that could be done. The American was _stupid._ Really, there was no other word for it. Couldn't he sense Arthur's obvious reluctance?

But Alfred really seemed to be intent on talking to him – which was strange, in Arthur's opinion. Most of the time, those who were intent on talking to Arthur gave up after realizing that he preferred solitude. Those who knew of the burden Arthur shouldered left him alone, knowing that Arthur was never, ever going to open up to them.

Arthur shook his head. Alfred was just being ridiculous.

By the time the night was done, he would make sure that Alfred Jones would regret the thought of even considering Arthur Kirkland as a _friend._

* * *

**So...I hope I didn't...mess that up too badly. Who groped Iggy's butt, huh? HUH?  
**

**I've been playing HetaOni, and ohmygoodgod that was so absolutely heart-wrenching. Seriously, I cried. **

**Read and review! :)**

**- Anne**


	3. Chapter 3

**Aaaaand in this chapter, we have some USxUK drama plus one or two other minor pairings. Enjoy.**

* * *

Epic Burger Hero,

Hear me out! There's someone I'd like to date, but all he seems to care is about his music. I've tried to be patient despite his haughtiness, but if this carries on I'll be delivering my confession with a frying pan!

_**Tomboy**_

* * *

Tomboy,

You gotta crack open that musical shell of his! No frying pans, though! They hurt baaaaaad. Why not involve yourself in some of his music? He'd totally notice you that way!

_**Epic Burger Hero**_

* * *

Hey, Burger Bastard!

I don't understand what's going on, dammit. Suddenly I hate this jerk of a bastard, and the next moment I wonder what's he up to – what he _thinks_ of me – all that shit.

Whatever. This is stupid, and your burgers are stupid.

_**Tomatoes**_

* * *

Tomatoes,

Dude, that was totally uncool! Never insult my burgers again! Anyway, you're definitely confused, so make up your mind first! Why exactly do you hate him in the first place? Is there a reason? Y'know, they say that there's a fine line between hate and love!

**Epic Burger Hero**

* * *

_"Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo!"_

Kiku Honda sipped his tea calmly, miraculously being able to concentrate on his PSP at a corner despite the ruckus in the mansion. He assessed the area around him with a casual glance – Gilbert was apparently winning big in cards and was sizing himself up, much to the annoyance of Feliks and Lovino. Feliks had given up and walked away, while Lovino stayed to spew all sorts of insults at the albino.

Kiku wondered how on earth Lovino and Feliciano ever ended up as brothers. The Vargas brothers resembled each other appearance-wise, but they were utterly different in terms of personalities. While Feliciano was a cheerful, airheaded boy, Lovino was brash and rough. He often frightened others away, much to Feliciano's chagrin.

Thankfully, there was _always_ someone to keep Lovino in line.

Which was why Kiku wasn't surprised when he saw an amused Antonio wrap a hand around Lovino's waist, pulling him away from a cackling Gilbert. Lovino punched Antonio, but everyone could tell it was half-hearted.

"You're observing the people around you again."

Kiku looked up, surprised to see Heracles approaching him.

Heracles Karpusi and Kiku had met through work, which involved history and anthropology. Kiku could never figure his co-worker out – Heracles always flicked a half-lidded smile at Kiku when Kiku berated him, insisting that Kiku worried too much. Kiku thought Heracles was just being lazy, but the Greek had surprised him during an international history convention with an impressive display of knowledge about his homeland.

_Kiku never underestimated Heracles after that._

"Karpusi? What a surprise seeing you here tonight."

"I'm just accompanying Yao. Parties aren't really my thing."

Kiku's dark eyes went large. "What? My cousin is here too?"

"Yes. By the way, that kimono looks good on you."

"Ah," Kiku replied uncomfortably, unsure of what to say. Instead of going to the party in Western clothes, Kiku had opted for a traditional, plain-colored kimono. "Thank you."

"May I sit with you?" Heracles asked, a lazy grin on his face. The Greek had dressed casually for the event – Kiku was so used to seeing his co-worker covered in dust and grime at excavation sites that he had forgotten even someone like _Heracles_ could be neat and tidy, too.

"O-of course." Kiku hastily moved away to make room, PSP long forgotten.

* * *

Arthur sat at the bar with his face propped with a hand, wondering what he had done to deserve this torture. Alfred was bouncing off the seat next to him, eager and excited.

"C'mon. Pick a drink!"

Arthur's reply was curt. "I don't drink."

"Beer? Scotch? Wine?" Alfred prodded, persistent and strangely patient. "Oh! If you want any suggestions, then you should get a beer. Gilbert and Ludwig stock up on 'em and make sure we partygoers get the best!"

Arthur ignored him, staring pointedly at the other direction.

Alfred grinned, unfazed by the Brit's unresponsive attitude. "Hey, bartender! Two beers!"

_Weird,_ the American told himself. He hadn't noticed it earlier on, but there was something _familiar_ about Arthur. He had seen him somewhere before, though he couldn't exactly remember how.

Was Arthur somehow a person he'd seen in the office? _No, not that._

Was he the stranger who taught him how to get around the London Underground? _Wait, that wasn't it either. _

There wasn't any time to think about it, though. Arthur looked like he was ready to sock him in the jaw. Alfred held up his hands in defense – it was the second time he was doing it that night. "Whoa, chill out! It's only a beer!"

"You git! Tell me, which part of 'I don't drink' do you _not_ understand?"

Alfred merely smiled cheekily. Arthur sighed – oh, that _bastard._

The bartender placed two bottles of beer in front of them. Alfred took one before casually handing another to Arthur. Arthur was tempted to say 'no' – he wanted nothing more than to leave the seat and that bloody party, where he could return home and work on his next assignments in peace. But Alfred was looking at him in such a hopeful way that he couldn't really say no. Arthur gave up, accepting the bottle of beer.

Alfred's face instantly lit up like a kid on Christmas day.

Arthur took a swig, tasting the bitter beer on his tongue. It had been such a long time since he visited a bar or had a drink with his friends, and now he was accepting a beer from a stranger he barely knew. Surely things couldn't get any worse – but apparently it could, for the bloody American seemed to be keen on striking up a conversation.

"So! I'm Alfred Jones!"

"I know," Arthur replied drily. "You brought it up earlier on."

"You're supposed to do that formal British thing by shaking my hand and introducing yourself!" Alfred held his hand out, eyeing Arthur expectantly.

"That…formal British _thing_?" Arthur furrowed his eyebrows, wondering just how dense the American could be. Was he trying to be civil? Shaking his head, he took Alfred's outstretched hand, mentally noting how firm his grip was – _sports player, perhaps?_ "Arthur Kirkland. I'd say how nice it is to meet you, but unfortunately I don't feel that way."

"Cool! I thought that you'd be happier if we shook hands and stuff, since you seemed pretty pissed 'bout what happened earlier on. 'Sides, it'll make it seem like we're starting anew, y'know?"

"Starting…anew?"

"Yeah! We kinda met each other in a bad way just now, so…" Alfred scratched the back of his head, looking nervous all of a sudden. "So I just thought I'd make it up to you, and…"

Arthur raised an eyebrow. Was Alfred trying to be considerate? Having nothing else to say, the Brit returned to his beer, wondering what was happening back at home. Peter was probably curled up in front of the television, watching one of his cartoon shows. He probably hadn't put the dishes away – in fact, Arthur wouldn't have been surprised if Peter had skipped dinner entirely and pigged out with just some junk food instead. He always tried to be discreet about the mess, but Arthur always had to be the one to remove potato chips from the floor.

Then there was the issue of getting more money to pay for the rent and Peter's school fees this month. Electricity bills. Food bills. More bills. What about the paper he had to write for university? The due date was in a few weeks, and unless Arthur exceeded the expectations of his lecturers, there was no way he could continue on with the scholarship.

And what if Peter made Arthur visit _more_ psychiatrists? He had been reasonably patient so far, but every time someone else tried to make him talk about his feelings, Arthur felt himself closer to snapping to a point of no return.

_Ah, fuck it all._

"…Hey," Alfred said.

"What?"

"You've wanted to do that for a long time, haven't you?"

Huh? _Oh._ Arthur hadn't realized that he had been chugging down mouthful after mouthful of beer, a nasty scowl on his face. He slammed the bottle down with a thud, wiping a hand over his mouth. "Sod off."

"It's funny how you speak like an old man."

"Shut up. At least I know how to separate my words appropriately. Bloody Americans…" Arthur said, shaking his head and turning to the bartender. "One scotch, please."

"So what d'ya do?" Alfred asked, watching as Arthur took the scotch with a polite 'thank you'.

"I'm in university."

"Cool!"

They lapsed into an uncomfortable silence after that, with nothing but distant music and laughter in the background. Arthur sipped his scotch, a faraway look in his eyes. Suddenly he turned to Alfred and said, "What about you?"

"Ah…I, uh, help people out." Alfred smiled, refusing to reveal the fact that he was an advice columnist. Being one was great, but staying anonymous was necessary. The only people who truly knew were his colleagues. All of them had been sworn to secrecy – they knew how nasty Alfred's vengeful pranks could get. "I've always wanted to be a hero, y'know?"

He expected Arthur to snicker, laugh or tell him how much of a child he was. Instead, the Brit merely looked intrigued. Taking it as a sign to continue, Alfred said, "When I was younger, I used to dress up with a cape and go 'round looking for people ta' help. It wasn't much – I climbed trees to get back lost balloons and helped the girl next door carry her books – but the feeling stayed, ya' know?" Alfred smiled boyishly, twiddling his thumbs absent-mindedly. "So…yeah, that's what I do now. I help people. I get to be their hero."

"A hero, huh…"

"Yep." Suddenly, Alfred leaned towards Arthur, sky-blue eyes no longer shining with playfulness. There was a serious undertone to them, and Arthur noticed it. He scooted away, surprised that the loud-mouthed American had been so close.

"W-what?"

"I'll always do whatever I can to help," Alfred said, expression unusually serious. _And that means you, too,_ he mentally added.

Arthur picked up the hidden message instantly and turned away, a flush on his cheeks. The increasing amount of alcohol was settling onto him like a gentle veil – he could already feel the warmth spreading from his stomach, all the way to his head.

_It felt good._

"One more!" Arthur called out loudly, blatantly ignoring the American beside him.

Alfred watched, amused, as Arthur consumed glass after glass of alcoholic beverages – each stronger than the last. He allowed it for a while – the Brit really needed to let loose for a while – but when Arthur was finishing his sixth drink, Alfred decided it was time to call it quits. Arthur apparently wasn't that good in holding his liquor.

"Hey, buddy, that's enough."

"Shaddup. No one asked you to be here. You're…not flying mint bunny," Arthur retorted with a hiccup. Laughing a little and totally clueless to what the heck a flying mint bunny was, Alfred snatched the drink from Arthur's hands with ease.

Arthur leaned over and wrestled with Alfred for the drink, which Alfred thought was kind of nice while it lasted. _Yep,_ he thought with a grin,_ Arthur was definitely tipsy_. The Brit's flushed cheeks were obvious even under the dim light.

And that was when Alfred came to a startling realization. That blond hair, those green eyes…Kirkland…Arthur _Kirkland…_

Alfred gaped._ No wonder Arthur had seemed familiar._

"Y-you…"

Sensing the American's sudden apprehension, Arthur steadied himself and sullenly asked, "What?"

"You're Arthur Kirkland," Alfred said disbelievingly, eyes widening.

Snort. "I believe you're at least intelligent enough to remember my name, lad."

"No, not that…you…you're _that_ Arthur Kirkland."

"_That?_"

"You're that Arthur Kirkland who survived the blaze that wiped out the Kirklands a few years ago, it was all over the news – ah, shit!" Alfred cursed upon realizing his mistake, but it was too late.

_Crash_.

Arthur had swept his arm across the bar counter, sending empty glasses flying onto the floor. The glass shards flew, sending a couple of people squealing and running. Alfred vaguely heard Gilbert yelling in a distance, but he couldn't make out the words. He was entirely focused on the blond in front of him.

Arthur's expression had changed. All the irritated scowls, glares and frowns the Brit had on his face all evening was nothing compared to _this_. Arthur's emerald eyes were flashing dangerously with cold, murderous intent. The tinge of red was still visible on his cheeks, but anyone could tell that this was not the blind rage of a drunk – no, this anger was icy, on the borderline of being maniacal.

"I see, Jones. I see what you were planning to do from the very beginning."

Alfred blinked, confused. "W-what?"

"I'm quite sure you've made a bet with someone from this room – it probably has a pathetic title like 'who can convert Arthur, the pitiful loner, into a happy socialite'. Who dared you to do it?"

"What are you talking about? No way, Artie!" Alfred exclaimed, looking horrified. "I'd never do that to you!"

Arthur growled, the urge to punch Alfred growing stronger by the second. "It's _Arthur_, you bloody wanker. Now move it, I'm going home. This instant."

"Artie – I mean, Arthur! Wait!"

"Don't you dare touch me, Alfred Jones!" Arthur yelled, slapping Alfred away when the American had attempted to grab his arm. "Just…let me leave. LET ME LEAVE!" Noticing that there was a door not too far away that led to the outside compound, Arthur hurtled towards it.

"Arthur!" Alfred called, desperate. "Seriously, wait up! Hey, someone stop him!"

More people had noticed them now. Feliciano was squealing in Italian – even Kiku and Heracles were moving towards the commotion. Lovino and Antonio stood by, curious to what would happen next.

Arthur ignored them. All of them were bloody liars – to think that they would set him up with a joke like this! Well, he was never going to fall for it again. With that thought in mind, Arthur walked out of the door in a huff, not really looking at where he was going. To his surprise, instead of solid ground, Arthur's foot came into contact with something else.

_Splash._

Arthur Kirkland had just walked into the mansion's _pool._

* * *

**Brutto figlio di puttana bastardo - **_**ugly son of a bitch bastard**_**. I actually had to google this up. I had no idea what other pairings to do for this story, so I just chucked in GreekxJapan and Spamano for now. GerIta is pretty canon too, so yeah. Now I can't decide between Franada, RoChu, PruCan, or...I don't know, seriously...anyway, poor Arthur. **

**Please review! I'd love to hear from you :)**

**- Anne**


	4. Chapter 4

**Okay! In this chapter you have USxUK, Arthur-angst, and themes of friendship. Anyway, during International Studies today, my lecturer was all like, "Even though America broke away from England, they still maintained a close relationship later on..."_  
_**

**And I was like, "Oh, yes. More than you would ever know." Then I proceeded in doing more Hetalia USxUK-centric doodles, feeling like a dorky moron.  
**

**Btw, Season Five of Hetalia? My life is now COMPLETE! Anyway, enjoy the chapter!  
**

* * *

_Arthur felt himself sinking deeper and deeper into nothingness.  
_

Years ago, the fire had surrounded him, engulfing and destroying. Those flames had burned and charred, scarring Arthur with painful memories that he could never forget.

_And now…_

The icy water was everywhere, seemingly intent on smothering him with its cold. Arthur's limbs felt like pieces of lead – he tried to move, to swim, to _break free_ from anything and everything that seemed to weighing him down –

_How ironic,_ he thought. _There probably wasn't such a great difference between water and fire after all. _

It didn't matter which element it was – water and fire were both the same. They consumed greedily, trapping, imprisoning –_  
_

_If fire didn't kill him, then perhaps water would. Since the fire took away everything he had to believe in, then perhaps the water could take his life away too. _

Arthur closed his eyes and stopped struggling, ignoring the way his body protested at the lack of oxygen. He took in a breath, only to feel the water sear through his lungs like fire.

How it burned. How it hurt.

Burning, drowning, hurting –

_But if death could take away his sins, then…_

That was when Arthur felt a strong arm loop around his waist, forcibly dragging him upwards. Startled, Arthur snapped his eyes open – only to see determined blue gaze back at him.

_No,_ Arthur thought, _just leave me be! _He shoved at Alfred's chest weakly, trying to wriggle out of his hold. _Let go of me. Just let me die. Let me…_

Alfred's hold merely tightened. He shook his head slowly at the Brit, using his other free arm to grab Arthur into an embrace.

_I'm not leaving you. I don't know why you want to die, but I'm not letting you go._

Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, momentarily ceasing his struggling. With that, Alfred used all his strength and everything he had learned from swimming class to his advantage. He kicked with all his might, cursing the fact that the Beilschmidts had a Olympic-sized pool at their backyard. Finally, he broke free from the water with a splash, with Arthur still pressed tightly against his chest.

Alfred had Arthur out of the water in seconds, sprawling him out on the grass. A crowd had gathered around and Gilbert was shouting about getting a doctor, but Alfred knew that there was no time to waste. The American knelt by Arthur's side, placing a finger at his neck.

Yes, that was definitely a pulse. Alfred breathed hard, a wave of relief spreading through him.

Ludwig ran over, something fluffy in his hands. "Here, use this."

Alfred grabbed hold of the thick towel, carefully placing it over the Brit. Arthur's body was freezing, and the word _hypothermia_ flashed past Alfred before he could help it. That was when he felt more panic rise within him – _why wasn't Arthur opening his eyes? Was Arthur unconscious? Could he be going into shock? _

The American's fingers shakily went to Arthur's face, pushing away the wet, blond bangs that now lay plastered on the Brit's pale face. He traced the contours of Arthur's face, willing for him to be okay, _to be okay –_

"A-Alfred?"

Alfred blinked and gazed back into mesmerizing emerald, ignoring the fact that their faces were merely inches away from each other. "Arthur…Arthur, are you okay? How d'you feel?"

Arthur was in no condition to reply. He coughed up mouthfuls of water before proceeding to empty the contents of his stomach over the grass, fingers digging into mud as he did. Alfred rubbed a comforting hand over Arthur's back, whispering comforting words to him.

Finally, Arthur stopped heaving. He panted and shivered violently, limbs trembling from the chilly London air. Alfred wrapped the towel over the Brit's head, ensuring that Arthur was swaddled as warmly as possible.

"What h-happened? Where…?" Arthur asked weakly, attempting to stand but failing. Alfred caught him, arms warm and supportive. "Bloody blazes…my limbs were never this w-weak."

"You nearly drowned. That's what you get for storming away before allowing people a chance to explain."

"L-let go of me, you…wanker."

"That's what you sorta indicated to me in the pool too," Alfred whispered. His voice was soft, but Arthur could detect the barely concealed anger behind it. The Brit flinched, remembering what had happened.

He had attempted to push Alfred away in the water, had attempted to let eternal slumber take over...

"Ve, Arthur! Are you feeling alright?" Feliciano asked.

Choosing this moment to ignore Alfred, Arthur focused on answering Feliciano's question instead. "I'll be fine. D-Don't worry."

"Get into the house. You can stay for the night," Gilbert said brusquely. Ignoring Arthur's protests, he continued, "Don't worry about Peter. I've called Tino and Berwald. They agreed to accompany and keep watch over him."

_Tino and Berwald…?_ They were a pair that Arthur had known well until he had chosen to shut himself away. Arthur vaguely recalled that they did indeed have a soft spot for Peter, and was fleetingly grateful that Gilbert had made such a wise selection.

"I'll get your room ready," Ludwig muttered. "_Bruder,_ handle the rest of our guests."

"_Ja, ja._" Gilbert spun to meet the small crowd who had gathered around before shouting, "Alright, show's over! Anyone up to challenging the awesome me to a game of poker?"

The atmosphere gradually returned to normal, with the tension breaking out into choruses of rowdy laughter once more. They no longer paid Alfred and Arthur any attention, to which both were thankful for.

"Well," Alfred said with a sigh, "Let's get you warmed up then."

* * *

While Arthur had been forced into a hot shower _again _for the second time in the night, Alfred made his way to the kitchen, eager for a hot drink. The American was feeling pretty tired himself – he had plunged headfirst into the pool without a second thought, after all.

Through a strange twist of fate, he had somehow managed to become something of a hero for the night. He hated the circumstances of it, though. Alfred recalled how Arthur had tried refusing his help in the pool, instantly feeling a wave of anger course through him.

_How could Arthur not want to live? _

Arthur, who had been acting so snippily in front of everyone earlier on, had looked…vulnerable. It was a look that was filled with hopelessness, a look that Alfred knew the Brit rarely showed. He sighed, grabbing the instant hot chocolate mixes from a cabinet. Alfred rather liked the taste of it during times like these – perhaps Arthur wouldn't mind one, too.

"That was totally awesome of you!"

Alfred turned to see the albino standing behind him, a Cheshire grin on his face.

"Gilbert? Aren't ya' gonna entertain your guests?"

"They're despairing over their money-loss to the awesome me, so I'm just giving them some space," Gilbert said with a shrug. "Anyway, as I was saying, you were awesome. Totally saved Brit-boy's ass there, man."

Alfred gave Gilbert a tired smile. "Just did what I had to do. Y'know, hero's code of conduct and all."

For the first time in the night, Gilbert looked a little guilty. "I was hoping that Arthur would have an awesome time tonight. Sure wasn't expecting this to happen…"

Alfred took two mugs and filled them with chocolate powder and warm milk before beginning to stir. "How long have you known him, Gilbert?"

"We've known him before the fire that took the Kirklands occurred," Ludwig interrupted. Feliciano sidled up next to him, a faraway look on his childlike face.

Alfred could see Kiku, Francis, Romano, Antonio, and even Yao making their way over to join the conversation. He hadn't been aware that so many people knew who Arthur was.

"Ve, we were all high school buddies! Right, _fratello_?"

"He was a grouchy _bastardo_," Lovino grumbled. "But I admit that he had good ideas sometimes, being the Student Council president and all."

Yao folded his arms. "He had a great mind,_ aru_. The teachers loved him."

Alfred managed a weak smile. Somehow, he could imagine Arthur as a studious, stodgy leader – making sure that his grades were top-notch, and that his uniform was always pressed to perfection. It wasn't any wonder that he would be the teachers' pet – students like these nowadays were rare, after all.

"It was so fun to tease him, _oui_?" Francis asked with a smirk, slinging his arms over Antonio and Gilbert. "We three were the best troublemakers in school, and Arthur always 'ad his hands full handling us."

"Kesesese! My tricks were always awesome. I know I got him good with those water balloons!"

Ludwig sighed. "_Bruder_..."

"Kiku had to make sure that Arthur didn't lose his temper all the time," Francis said with a chuckle. "Right, Kiku?"

Kiku, who had remained silent, decided that this was his cue to speak up. "_Hai_. I was in the Student Council too. Rife then was very…" He paused, trying to find the right word. "…Interesting."

"Rife? Oh, _life_. Did things change after…" Alfred hesitated, "The fire?"

He was met by a period of silence. Feliciano's bubbly expression dissolved into a sad smile and he clutched Ludwig's hands tightly, the tiny curl on his head trembling. Lovino huffed uneasily, refusing to look at Alfred in the eye.

_That bad, huh?_

"We saw it on ze news," France said, shaking his head sadly. "The footage was awful – all the smoke, flames and chaos..."

"And then Arthur – he just disappeared. He resigned from his post, stopped coming to school, and just _disappeared_. It was…how long was it again? Six months?" Ludwig muttered.

"It was a year," Kiku confirmed. "He reft without saying a word. No one knew where he went, or how he and Peter were doing. We graduated and were all accepted into the same university together, except the three of you…" Kiku trailed off, looking towards Lovino, Feliciano and Antonio.

"Because the two of us decided to open an Italian restaurant, ve? It was so nice of you to help us out too, Antonio!"

"Of course!" Antonio said, grinning. "Ouch, Lovi! Why'd you hit my head for?"

"You're useless all the time, tomato bastard! Since when have you ever _helped_ us?"

"And then?" Alfred asked, refusing to allow the topic of Arthur to stray away. "What happened after that? How did you all come to find him again?"

"It was a coincidence that we met Arthur again during orientation week. We freaked out, didn't we?" Gilbert said, nudging France.

"_Oui, _but we knew it was definitely 'im – no one else has eyebrows that large."

Alfred chuckled, knowing that Francis had a point. He had only noticed how large Arthur's eyebrows were not too long ago – Arthur's shaggy blond bangs had otherwise hid most of it away earlier on in the night. The American thought that they were monstrously adorable, arching over Arthur's eyes in a weird fashion.

"We went to talk to him," Antonio said. "But Arthur just wasn't the same anymore."

Alfred perked up. "What d'you mean?"

"It means exactly as I said, _amigo._ Arthur had become a different person."

"Yeah," Gilbert groaned, rolling his eyes. "It was totally unawesome! He didn't seem excited to see us. None of my awesome jokes worked on him!"

"_Aiya_, it too strange, _aru_! He responded to us in civil manner like before, but it was not the same. He acknowledged us, but…"

"But it lacked warmth," Francis stated matter-of-factly. "It just wasn't the same Arthur. The Arthur years ago was brash and sarcastic, but he always treated us as friends. Now, he's just somebody that we used to know."

* * *

_"Arthur? Arthur, is that you?" Francis asked. There was no way he could have been mistaken – that blond hair, those eyebrows that stood out even in the crowd, that proud, English gait – it could only be one person! "Arthur!"_

_Said person didn't even blink. He merely stared at the excited Frenchman, hands placed stiffly at a side. "Francis," he said, as a way of greeting.  
_

_France clapped his hands together in excitement, a broad smile on his face. "Mon ami, Arthur, it 'as been far too long!"_

_"Indeed…" Arthur muttered, fumbling around with the books in his hands. "Perhaps it has."_

_"Oi, Francis! What the hell's taking you so long?" Gilbert shoved past the people, ignoring how they looked at him in distaste. "Who's that you talking t – wait, Arthur?" The albino's garnet eyes widened into two miniature moons as he gaped at Arthur, pointing an accusing finger at him.  
_

_"ARTHUR!" Antonio bellowed, jogging over and slinging an arm around the man's shoulders._

_"It's Arthur, aru!"_

_"Good afternoon, Arthur-san."_

_"Sehr gut to see you again, Arthur."_

_"How 'ave you been?" Francis asked. "It was no fun graduating without you!"_

_"Congratulations on graduating," Arthur commented slowly, shrugging Antonio's arm away. "I am…alive and kicking, as they say."_

_Kiku gave Arthur a gentle smile. "Now that you are here, we can go back to the happy days again."_

_Arthur didn't smile back. He cast a swift glance to the eager faces – France, Antonio, Gilbert, Yao and Kiku were all smiling, happy to see him again. Each of them looked so hopeful – Arthur could practically envision them holding out their hands, inviting him to be with them once again._

_But it had been too long, Arthur thought, far too long. Too much had changed in just that period of time. Return? Where to? To the happy days that he had long given up? _

_It was impossible. He couldn't. He just couldn't._

_Arthur turned, walking away. He never saw how Kiku and Ludwig's normally stoic expressions changed into that of sadness, never saw how despondent Francis had looked. Arthur never saw how that simple action of his hurt the hearts of the people he knew, never saw how much he meant to them, never saw how much they were willing to be there for him.  
_

_With that, Arthur shut his heart to a faraway place where it could never again be reached._

* * *

Arthur put on the clean shirt he was provided with, feeling his head pound. The warm shower had calmed him somehow, but Arthur could still feel his limbs shaking like that of a child's. He let out a slew of profanity, willing himself to rein back some form of control over his body.

Coming to this party was not part of the plan. Not being able to hold his liquor was not part of the plan. Falling into a pool and needing someone to save him like a princess was definitely not part of the plan.

He hated it.

He _fucking_ hated it.

And then there was Alfred Jones. Arthur didn't like him one bit – that heroic streak of his was irritating. Arthur couldn't forget how Alfred had rescued him – his arms had been so firm, gripping Arthur like he was the most important thing in the world.

_Which was utterly ridiculous, of course. No one ever loved, or treasured, the broken._

There was a click and a smiling Alfred appeared in the doorway, two mugs of steaming hot chocolate in his hands.

"Here ya' go, Artie! One hot chocolate, coming right up!"

"It's Arthur," the Brit retorted. Still, he accepted the mug gratefully and took a sip, feeling himself relax at the taste of freshly-brewed hot chocolate. It was made just the way he liked it, with enough milk to match.

Alfred gulped his own share down, watching Arthur carefully from the corner of his eye. "Like it?"

The Brit ignored him, but Alfred could see some of the tension ebbing away from the Brit. His shoulders had visibly relaxed, and the bewildered expression on his face had transformed into something of contentment.

_Good,_ Alfred thought, _because I want to make this as easy as possible._

"Arthur."

Arthur looked up and acknowledged Alfred with a slight nod, noting how serious the American had sounded all of a sudden. He felt his heart thump a little faster – _this couldn't be anything good._

"We need to talk."

_Well, shite._

* * *

**Arthur's mates should all just go like, "Now you're just somebody that I used to know..." **

**Please remember to drop a review! Tell me what you thought about the chapter! :)**

**- Anne**


	5. Chapter 5

**In this chapter, you have family!SwedenxFinlandxPeter, serious USxUK (oh, yes, serious indeed), and even more Arthur-angst.**

**Enjoy!**

* * *

"That was the best movie I've ever seen!" Peter crowed, his eyes flashing in excitement. He continued chattering even when the credits rolled, grinning and gesturing animatedly.

Tino gave the teenager that was squashed between him and Berwald a gentle smile. "I'm glad you like it. Berwald and I picked it out before we came over."

It was only but an hour ago when Tino and Berwald received a call from Gilbert, who had all but exclaimed that Arthur wouldn't be able to come home for the night. Gilbert pointed out that he needed someone to watch over Peter, knowing that that was what Arthur would be worried about. The two of them had quickly agreed, seeing as they had no other plans for the night. They had then stopped by the video rental shop for some movies and turned up at the Kirklands, explaining to a very surprised Peter what had happened.

Tino and Berwald had met the Kirkland brothers before, knowing that they were decent individuals despite the unfortunate incidents they had been through. Arthur had been distantly polite, greeting them with a curt nod and a stiff handshake. Peter was the opposite by constantly being up to some form of mischief – he had instantly taken a liking to the cheerful Finnish and the stoic Swedish, finding them interesting and fun to be around.

"Mm-hmm." Peter gave a short yawn, his arms outstretched. This was the third movie of the night, and even he was starting to feel a little drowsy. "Thank you, by the way. I'm sorry that you two had to come over at this time of the night."

"It's never a problem!" Tino said. "We enjoy spending time with you – don't we, Berwald?"

There was a muffled grunt in response.

Peter laughed wearily. "Honestly though, Arthur worries too much. I'm fifteen, for crying out loud! He's always making sure that there's someone with me all the time. It's almost like he's too afraid to leave me alone."

"Y' d'sl'ke 't?"

"I…no." Peter blinked, surprised that Berwald had spoken. The massive Swede rarely voiced his questions, often leaving it to Tino to ease awkward situations or carry on a conversation. "I…don't really dislike it…"

Peter shifted uneasily before proceeding to rest his entire weight on the couch. The couch was old, battered and worn – but to Peter, it was still a good couch. He exhaled noisily while Berwald and Tino waited, knowing that Peter had more to say.

"It's just…ironic, really," Peter said, laughing bitterly. "Before the fire happened, it took so much just to get Arthur to play – no, _wait._ It was difficult to get him to _notice_ me in the first place." The teenager shook his head, a wistful expression surfacing on his usually cheerful face. "And now…now it seems like he puts in everything only for me. He works hard, buys me things sometimes, makes sure I'm never by myself. It makes me happy and drives me insane at the same time."

"Francis spoke to me about this before," Tino said softly, standing up to place the DVD back into its case. "Arthur was once the Student Council President, wasn't he?"

"_The Student Council President?_" Peter repeated, sounding incredulous. "Oh, no. No, no, no. He was much _more_ than that." Peter's gaze flickered to the ceiling, where chunks of plaster were already beginning to peel and fall off. "My brother was the shining beacon of the Kirkland family, the pride and honour of my parents. Everyone had high hopes for him, and he excelled in everything that he could. I'd always see Arthur studying something different everyday – on Monday he'd do Portuguese, on Tuesday it'd be something deep like politics or philosophy. Just when you think he wouldn't be able to do any more, he'd surprise you by defeating the sons of dukes and politicians to things like fencing and chess!"

Peter's face scrunched up in distaste at the memories. He had been young back then, but he remembered.

_Arthur's room, filled to the brim with textbooks and other reading materials with words too difficult for Peter to understand. _

_Arthur's room where music manuscripts lay scattered on the floor, some too messy to be deciphered. _

_Arthur's room that had various print-outs of charts and statistics on the wall, most that had too many numbers never made sense to Peter at all. _

"Arthur was always busy. He was constantly moving around from place to place – in the day Arthur would be in his crisp school blazer, and on the weekends he would be dressed up as formally as a young man could be. He would go out with my parents all the time to meet a whole bunch of people, and they'd fawn over him all the time."

"That's a lot of things to be doing…" Tino murmured, trailing off.

Peter nodded. "Yeah…I used to try talking to him, but…there were never enough chances. He'd smile in that sad way of his and say, 'maybe some other time'. It was always like that."

"Was your brother…" Tino hesitated, knowing that his next question was going to be a sensitive one. "Ever happy?"

"No," Peter replied sadly. "But I wanted him to be. I've _always_ wanted him to be…"

Peter knew, of course. He knew that the smiles Arthur offered to the guests dressed in fancy clothes and jewellery weren't genuine. He knew of how Arthur would sometimes sigh and pace in his bedroom in frustration, muttering darkly under his breath. He knew of how Arthur would spin the beautiful globe on the hallway with a painful, faraway look in his green eyes.

_Arthur never knew that Peter knew. _

"I'm really glad he went for that party tonight, at the very least," Peter continued, closing his eyes. "It's been so long since he's been to one, and I want him to be with his friends."

"I'm sure he enjoyed it," Tino offered helpfully.

Peter snorted. "He probably didn't. That's just how my brother is. But if he could just…talk to others instead of just being around me all the time...if he could find the people he trust, the one he loves…"

"But he does love you!" Tino insisted.

"It's true that he cares for me and loves me as the younger brother I am, but that doesn't mean he _trusts _me," Peter said with a hesitant grin. "Which he doesn't, seeing as he doesn't tell me anything even up until today. I want him to get to know someone who he can really love , trust, and truly share his feelings with. It'll be just like how the two of you are."

Berwald only gave a short nod. He understood what the teenager meant. Tino frowned, never realizing that the problem between the two brothers ran this deep.

Suddenly, Peter shuddered. More memories were resurfacing, and he didn't like it.

_Peter remembered how things started going wrong._

He remembered how the shouting between his parents began to occur; remembered how Arthur tried in vain to stop it. Peter remembered how everyone around him began harbouring hatred in their eyes, and how the normally docile Arthur seemed to be more vicious than the rest. Peter remembered himself hiding away in the room with his ears covered, trembling in fear at the loud sounds and angry screams outside. He remembered how things just continued piling, spiralling, hurting – until – until –

…_until everything burned…_

…

_And Peter couldn't do anything for him. _

_…_

_Not then, not even now.  
_

…

…

"Peter?" Tino whispered.

The teenager didn't respond. His chest rose and fell rhythmically - Peter had fallen asleep, his breathing even and quiet. Berwald gently placed a blanket on top of the sleeping figure, taking care not to rouse him.

For a long moment, all Tino and Berwald could do was stand in front of the slumbering boy, their hands intertwined. Tino sighed and sniffled a little, thinking of how blessed he was to have Berwald with him.

"Y' 'lr'ght?"

"Yes, Berwald, thank you."

Smiling sadly, Tino turned to Peter.

"Healing is always the hardest, Peter. The two of us may never truly understand what you and your brother have gone through, but..." He paused a little, feeling Berwald's fingers tighten around his own. Tino knew that Peter couldn't hear him, but he wanted to say it anyway. "Someday, happiness will come. Someday, the two of you will be able to look at the future without looking back at the past. Perhaps even someday, your brother will be able to find his special one - and you will, too."

_When that time comes, everything will feel alright again._

* * *

Arthur pointedly refused to look at Alfred in the eye, knowing that the American's gaze was fixated on him. Things had spiralled out of control tonight – and at this point, nothing much made sense. Arthur felt like a child about to receive his punishment from an authoritative adult - which wasn't logical at all.

Whatever Arthur felt was none of the American's concern, so why did Alfred always have to complicate things? Why did Alfred have to care about how messed up Arthur was? Why did Alfred have to be a hero? What good would it do for Alfred to be involved with someone like _him?_

"Arthur, look at me."

_Who the bloody hell does Alfred Jones think he is?_

"Arthur."

_Shut your trap and go away._

A firm hand landed on the Brit's shoulder. "I'm not gonna hurt you, Arthur. I just wanna talk."

"Well, fucking _talk_ and get it over with then!" Arthur roared, the last of his patience finally snapping. He shoved Alfred away roughly with all the strength he could muster, watching dispassionately as the American lost his balance and collided noisily into the dressing table. Alfred slid to the ground in pain, making a mental note to speak to Ludwig on getting some safer, less aristocratic-looking furniture for the room.

The silver moonlight that filtered through the window shone over Arthur's standing form, casting dark shadows on the carpet. Arthur looked_ deadly_ – there was no other word for it. The Brit was breathing hard; his massive eyebrows slanting over emerald eyes that seemed to blaze wildly with anger.

Strangely enough, Alfred wasn't afraid. Arthur looked pissed – _there was no doubt about that_ – but Alfred knew that there was something else. Behind the curtain of rage and resentment, there was more to Arthur Kirkland than what actually met the eye.

"What are ya' running away from?" Alfred asked, the words slipping out before he could stop them.

Arthur froze, the anger on his face momentarily dissolving into panic. It was gone in a second, but Alfred recognized it.

_Jackpot._

"What the bloody hell are you talking about?" Arthur growled. No, no_._ He had to stay in _control._ Arthur wouldn't give in to an American who had the ability to transform from an irritating brat in one second to a confident, mature young man at the next. Alfred's calm expression made it seem like he knew a secret that Arthur didn't, and he despised it.

"What are ya' running away from?" Alfred repeated, his baby-blue eyes locking onto Arthur's green ones.

Arthur scowled. "I'm not - "

"And don't tell me that's not what you're doing, because that's clearly bullshit," Alfred said, his voice not wavering. "You're running away, Artie. You've been doin' that for the whole night, for all these years, for _forever_. Whaddaya wanna do? You wanna continue running away for the rest of your life?"

_Oh, that wanker._ "You speak as if you understand everything, Jones," Arthur hissed, "When you clearly don't."

"Maybe not," Alfred agreed, "But there are quite a few things I learned from ya' tonight. I know that you're running and hiding. You tried to push me away in the pool. In other words, you wanted to escape. To _die_."

Caught, Arthur didn't respond. Alfred remained seated on the floor, eyeing him expectantly.

Arthur hated Alfred. He _loatheddespisedresented_ Alfred with every fibre of his being. Arthur balled his fingers into fists, putting in so much force that the skin began to tear.

"Go on," Alfred said. "Hit me if ya' want to. I'll say this, though, nothing's gonna change. You're just gonna keep lying to yourself, make yourself believe in something that's not true." With that, Alfred sat completely still, bracing himself for Arthur's punch. Perhaps it was stupid to challenge Arthur like that, but it simply had to be done.

He waited some more, but the pain didn't come.

Instead, something unexpected happened. Arthur had decided to ask him a question. "…Why did you try so hard to save me in the pool?"

Alfred rolled his eyes. Like _that_ wasn't obvious enough. "I'm the hero, that's why. Besides, it was a _pool_, not the Atlantic ocean. You were in trouble, so I saved ya'. No big deal."

"I…know that," Arthur muttered, sounding uncertain for the first time. "What I meant was…in the pool. I tried pushing you away, but you wouldn't allow it. Why?"

"That's easy," Alfred said. "It's because I know that there are many things worth living for."

"You?" Arthur sounded incredulous. "What on earth would someone like _you_ know?"

Alfred tried not flinch. That comment stung. "I know enough to know that life's precious. Just speaking from experience, 'ya know?" Smiling a little sadly, he continued, "What're you gonna achieve by killing yourself anyway? Nothing, that's what. You're just trying to escape pain, aren't ya'?" The American gave a soft chuckle, knowing that he had had his very own experiences. Yes, Alfred knew he definitely had seen enough in the past. Those memories were enough to last him a lifetime.

_Isn't that right, Mattie? _Alfred thought, chuckling humorlessly to himself. _Mattie...  
_

_From experience?_ Arthur shook his head, determined not to let Alfred's words affect him. In an icy tone, he said, "I don't see what your point is, Jones. What exactly are you aiming to achieve now? Did you, perhaps, pity me? Did you want to strip every single last defence I had to see how pathetic I am underneath it all?"

With traces of Matthew wiped from his mind, Alfred watched, transfixed, as Arthur knelt in front of him. "If you thought I might be in need of friendship, Jones, then think again. I never needed a riff-raff as a companion."

Alfred's gaze darkened. "Stop. Just stop doing that."

"Oh?" Arthur cocked an eyebrow. "Stop doing what, exactly? You would have to be a bit more specific, as I - "

"STOP AVOIDING EVERYTHING!" Alfred yelled, reaching out to grab Arthur by the shoulders. Arthur's eyes widened in surprise, not expecting an outburst from the usually-jovial American. "D'you even realize how selfish you're being? DO YOU?"

"LET GO OF ME!"

"I won't! Not until you see reason, not until you understand! D'ya understand what this _attitude_ of yours does to others? D'ya know know what exactly you put them through?" Alfred shook Arthur roughly, blue eyes burning in anger. "Well?"

"Others?" Arthur glared. "Who exactly are you talking about?"

"I'm talking about your_ friends_, Artie!"

Arthur scowled, too furious to even correct Alfred's incorrect usage of his name. "My friends?"

"Yes, Artie, your friends!" Alfred roared. "Remember them? They actually _exist_, in case you've forgotten! They were the ones who always tried to stand by you, even when you repeatedly _pushed_ them away! Have ya' even tried being a little considerate to them, even for once?"

"I have no clue as to what the fuck you're talking about," Arthur spat. But try as he could to deny it, the Brit knew he couldn't lie to himself. He felt his blood go cold, realizing that he actually _understood_ what Alfred meant.

Arthur wanted to just laugh maniacally at how screwed up everything was. In his attempts to protect himself, Arthur had been wrapping himself up in thorns for so long, prickling anyone who had dared to come near. Somewhere along the way, he had hurt Peter too – but hadn't he been doing that throughout his life? In order to redeem himself, he had allowed his fifteen-year-old brother to know as little as possible – but Peter wasn't stupid, of course. He never was.

_And what about the rest of them?_

Arthur found himself remembering the days where had been still the Student Council President, where he had to prevent his Vice, Francis, from flirting with the school's female population. He had to watch his step in order not to fall prey to Gilbert's pranks, and had to stop Feliciano from illegally sneaking into the school kitchen to make pasta.

Things weren't exactly peaceful, but it had been the only part of life that he enjoyed. Arthur had found himself enjoying the company he kept, despite how unruly and disobedient they were.

_Would things have turned out differently if Arthur had accepted their friendship once again after everything that had happened?_

"Yes, you do. You know exactly what I'm talking about." Alfred pulled the Brit into a tight hug, ignoring how Arthur flinched like a frightened animal. He closed his eyes and inhaled, realizing how Arthur smelled a lot like the sandalwood shampoo in the bathroom. "You can't carry on living like this, Artie. You just can't."

There was a long period of silence, to which the only thing Arthur could hear was the steady beating of Alfred's heart. There was no point in struggling to break free of Alfred's grip - if there was one thing that Arthur had learned tonight, it was that the American had the strength of a trained athlete.

Arthur's next question came out soft and muffled. "…What if…what if I want to?"

"No, no, you can't," Alfred repeated, alarmed at how upset Arthur sounded. "I won't let ya'." He crushed Arthur in an even tighter hug, noticing how small and frail the blond truly was. "It's gonna be tough, but I'll make sure things go better for ya'. I promise."

_Why?_ Arthur thought. _Whywhywhywhywhy? _"You don't know a thing about me, Jones. There's no reason for you to stay."

A smile ghosted across Alfred's lips. "And what if I want to?"

Arthur closed his eyes, feeling his throat choke up with a myriad of emotions that he couldn't identify. It was a mixture of dread, sadness, and relief. "I hate you," he whispered against Alfred's chest, "I hate you so much…"

Alfred's voice was low and reassuring. "I don't care. You can hate me as much as you like and try pushing me away as much as ya' want, but that won't change anything. I'm gonna stay by your side until you talk, Artie. I'll make you open up and realize once again just how precious life is."

_I once failed to be your hero, Mattie, but I won't fail again. This time,_ Alfred thought, trying to push his own painful thoughts away, _I'll save Arthur, and nothing's gonna stop me.  
_

* * *

**Before anyone freaks out, I'll just say it here now - Matthew (Canada) is NOT dead. No, he's not. There's a background story to Alfred and Mattie, and it'll come in time - but I promise you, Mattie is alive.  
**

**Please, please, please - review! I'd appreciate it if you dropped me even a line or two! (: Feedback helps me improve, and it gets me to know whether I'm doing anything wrong or not!  
**

**- Anne**_  
_


	6. Chapter 6

**Exams are finally over for me, so that means more writing time! :D  
**

**In this chapter, you have...well...I don't know. You tell me. :3 I had to change some of the front parts in order to make sure there were no loopholes...*shakes head* man, I'm bad in consistency sometimes.  
**

* * *

Matthew Williams frowned, a look of deep concentration on his face. His room was…messy. There was just no other word for it, and it didn't feel right. He liked his personal space to be orderly, where he could breathe a little.

_But this wouldn't be his room for much longer, would it?_

There was a gentle tap on his shoulder and Matthew turned around to see Toris, the boy who lived in the next room. "I'm sorry, your door was open and I invited myself in. How are you getting on?" Toris asked, making sure that Matthew could see the words he had formed on his lips.

"…Not too good," Matthew admitted. He motioned for the Lithuanian to come in, to which Toris did. The brunet cast a curious look over Matthew's room. Clothes were strewn on the bed and a pile of books had been stacked up in a corner – a pile which had begun to wobble a little.

The crash that came a few seconds later was loud, reverberating around the entire room. Toris winced – everyone who lived on this floor had probably heard that. The walls that weren't soundproof, after all. From under the pile of books a snowy paw popped out, followed by a pair of blinking eyes.

"Matthew," Toris called. "I think your polar bear's hungry."

Matthew didn't respond. He had his back turned to Toris, navy eyes darting between two shirts he was holding up. Toris blinked a few times, suddenly remembering his friend's situation.

It was just so easy to forget sometimes. It wasn't that Matthew was ignoring the sound of books crashing onto the floor or Toris on purpose, but it was that Matthew just _couldn't_ hear them.

The Lithuanian tapped Matthew's shoulder again to get his attention, pointing at the white blob on the floor that had started chewing on a book. The Canadian looked up at Toris blankly for a few seconds before following the direction of Toris' finger.

"Kuma!" Matthew sighed exasperatedly, lifting the snowy bear up. "Look at the mess you've made!"

"I'll help you," Toris said, bending down to pick the books up. "Where do you want me to put these?"

"Just put them into the box," Matthew replied, a smile on his face. "Thank you, Toris. What would I do without you? I'm leaving tomorrow, and yet everything still seems to be unorganized."

The Lithuanian felt a wave of sympathy for his Canadian friend. Matthew was one of the nicest people he had ever met. He was honest, gentle and polite – everything Toris knew many people would have wanted in a friend.

It wasn't Matthew's fault that people thought he was stuck-up when they called out to him in school from afar and he didn't respond.

It wasn't Matthew's fault that the girls found it hard to get along with him.

It wasn't Matthew's fault when he misunderstood things others said, especially when he never truly had the chance to hear it out loud.

_It wasn't Matthew's fault that he was deaf._

When Toris had learned about Matthew's condition from one of the school counsellors, he had thought that it would be difficult to communicate with Matthew – but he was wrong. The fact was that Matthew could lip-read perfectly and respond just like how any normal individual would – all it took was a little patience and understanding, which many students in their school lacked. Matthew didn't seem to mind, though. He never flared up, even when provoked. Toris found it admirable and frustrating at the same time – while it was one of the Canadian's good qualities, it inevitably resulted in others taking advantage of him.

Noticing that Matthew was facing him, Toris asked, "So…London, huh?"

The Canadian nodded. "Yeah."

"Know anyone there?"

"…I've been communicating with a German who I'll be living with," Matthew said slowly. "Gilbert, that's his name. He seems…very eccentric, and didn't seem to mind even when the school informed him of my condition." He paused a little, a look of discomfort on his face. "He has been quite persistent in his questions, some of which I avoid. I hope things will go well."

"He asks you many things?" Toris asked before he could stop himself.

Matthew nodded, looking uneasy.

Toris chuckled. "It'll be fine."

The Canadian smiled in appreciation before turning away, berating his pet for being such a chore.

The Lithuanian finished placing the last of Matthew's books into the box, looking around for something else to do instead. His gaze swept past the Canadian's desk, noticing that Matthew's laptop was on and that there were several emails open. There were also various photographs plastered on the wall above – one particular photograph was obviously an old one, where two young boys could be seen wrestling with each other in the golden sunshine. One of them was obviously Matthew – _but who was the other one?_

Toris had never asked Matthew about his family. He never felt that it was his place to do so. Matthew never mentioned anything about his past to anyone, either – whenever others asked Matthew about how his deafness came about, the Canadian would only smile sadly and say, "It was an accident from a long time ago."

Toris watched Matthew fold his shirts into neat squares, feeding the polar bear with strips of dried fish. He could only hope that things would go well for the Canadian in London.

* * *

There were many times in life where Arthur awoke to embarrassing sleeping positions no one would dream of being caught in. During the days where he was the Student Council President, Arthur would sometimes loll off in the middle of paperwork and wake up a few hours later to find himself slumped halfway across the chair, a thin line of drool from the corner of his mouth. Sometimes he fell asleep in the middle of chess games, or while he drank tea in the garden. As he grew older and the workload increased, Arthur would drift off in the library and open his eyes to a pile of books or to an anxious librarian, telling him that the library was closing for the night.

But never before had Arthur Kirkland woke in the arms of someone else.

He hadn't thought that it was remotely possible, but it had truly happened. After getting drunk, falling into a swimming pool and having screamed himself raw, Arthur had been immensely exhausted. Alfred had stubbornly pulled the Brit into an embrace later on, to which Arthur had grudgingly allowed.

And he had, of all things, fallen asleep – which explained why Arthur Kirkland woke to the rhythmic thumping of Alfred's heart, with the American's chin resting comfortably on the top of Arthur's head. Someone out there had taken the time to drape a thick blanket around their shoulders – which also meant that that individual had probably howled in laughter at Arthur and Alfred's predicament. Wankers.

Arthur let out his breath in a whoosh, unsure of what to do. He wanted to wriggle away from Alfred's embrace, but the American's arms were wrapped around so firmly – if he moved away, he would definitely wake Alfred up.

…Not like waking Alfred up was particularly _worrying_, of course – it just wasn't in Arthur's nature to intentionally disturb the sleep of others. The Brit shifted slowly, peering at his watch to check on the time.

…

"Bloody hell!" Arthur yelled. He stood up abruptly, knocking Alfred's head into the wall.

Alfred yelped in surprise, awakened by the Brit's sudden actions. "Whoa there, Artie! What happened to the ol' 'good morning'?"

"This isn't the time for jokes, you twat! I'm late," Arthur snapped, trying to crawl away. How he and Alfred had managed to tangle themselves up in blankets, he would never know. Arthur cursed in frustration as his leg bumped into Alfred's. He thrashed about, effectively tangling themselves up even further.

_Fucking blankets._

"Arthur," Alfred began. When this went unnoticed, Alfred spoke even louder. "Arthur, it's Sunday!"

His strong arms seized Arthur by the waist and the Brit fell onto the soft blankets with a loud 'oof', realizing with embarrassment that Alfred was, indeed, correct. He scowled, refusing to meet Alfred's eyes. The bloody American's arms were, of all things, still placed around his waist. Had that irritable Yankee no sense of decency whatsoever?

_No,_ Arthur thought spitefully. _The word 'decency' probably didn't even exist in Alfred's dictionary. _

_He doesn't know much. _

_...  
_

_He doesn't know anything.  
_

_...  
_

The American watched in amusement, unaware of Arthur's hateful thoughts. "Can't remember the days? You sure work too much, Artie."

"Do you mind releasing me?" Arthur snapped. "I want to wash my face."

And just like that, Alfred quickly retracted his hands, surprise etched on his face. "Sorry."

"You should be." Arthur stood up and headed for the bathroom, his blond hair mussed and sticking out at odd angles. His green eyes still held traces of sleepiness, and the shirt he wore was creased from the odd sleeping position he had been in.

Alfred had to bite his tongue in order to stop himself from laughing. While Arthur had looked so serious and dangerous last night, he was just…adorable in the morning. The Brit reminded Alfred of one of those cats Kiku owned – perfectly loveable, yet bristly and temperamental at the slightest touch.

Not that _that_ made sense, of course – but at this point, nothing much did.

Yawning loudly, the American stood up and caught his gaze in the mirror, noting that he wasn't looking any better either. He attempted to press his hair down, glaring at the stubborn, prominent cowlick of his that children loved to yank.

_Mother often commented on how difficult it was to handle whenever she tried to comb Mattie and I's hair when we were younger…_

"Mattie…" Alfred murmured softly, peering out of the window. It was drizzling lightly, the raindrops falling onto the ground with a repetitive pitter-patter. The American watched the pedestrians with a faraway look on his face, a sequence of jumbled thoughts in his head.

How long had it been since he had last seen Mattie? Was it eight years? No, it was more than that. Ten, Alfred believed. Ten years. It hadn't even been possible to keep in contact – no, his younger brother had disappeared from America at that time, leaving with his mother to – _where_ to? It was far away, Alfred knew that much. Another city? Another country?

Alfred had continued living with his father after that, finishing high school and college before moving over to London. The American hardly spoke to his father nowadays – sometimes he wanted to ask about Matthew, and yet he always stopped before the question left his mouth.

Alfred sighed. It had been such a long time, and things were only going to continue changing.

Did Matthew ever think about him? Worse still, did he even remember that Alfred _existed?_ Perhaps Matthew hated Alfred – that was only natural. Still, Alfred knew that it was better than being forgotten. Was Matthew in school? Did he have a girlfriend? Was Matthew a wild kid, or was he the same cheerful, gentle boy that Alfred remembered him to be years ago?

…_Was Matthew even still alive? _

_Don't think about that,_ Alfred thought fiercely. Of course his brother was still alive. He had to be.

_The blood on Mattie's body would have disappeared by now, after all._

Alfred felt a light shudder run throughout him. The idea of his brother dying, no longer existing – it sent a stab of pain through his heart, knowing that he was gone, just _gone _–

_Would he ever find out?_

"If I ever have the chance to meet him again…" Alfred murmured, still staring out of the window.

If he and Mattie were to be reunited again by some strange stroke of luck, then Alfred would want to do nothing else but to apologize. He would grab Matthew and apologize over and over again for the irreparable damage he had caused, for the permanent scars that Matthew would always bear. He would apologize for not being able to be his brother's hero. He would apologize for not being able to bring the happiness he knew his brother deserved.

And even then, there was no guarantee that he would be forgiven.

"Who?"

Arthur stood by the doorframe, water dripping from his face. He no longer looked sullen, but was staring at Alfred with unconcealed curiosity.

"Artie!" Alfred all but sang, slinging an arm around the Brit, who staggered a little under the weight. The American plastered a bright smile on his face, grinning widely, dark thoughts ebbing out of his mind. "Let's get some breakfast!"

_There's no need for him to find out the past of a hero._

Arthur protested loudly, but Alfred ignored him. He dragged the grumpy Brit out of the room, singing obnoxiously at the top of his voice.

"Stop that," Arthur hissed, "You're being too loud."

"Who cares? It's about time everyone got up!"

"Arthur's right," a voice said, sounding tired and raspy. "Your awful singing isn't helping my headache, Américain."

Alfred glanced at Francis in surprise, noting the way he was slumped over the floor with empty bottles around him. Arthur wrinkled his nose, eyeing the mess with distaste. Cans, pizza covers, and food wrappers littered the floor. He gingerly made his way across the room, careful not to step into a pool of sick.

"Hangover?" Alfred asked sympathetically.

Francis nodded, looking pathetic. "The worst."

"I refuse to fathom what happened here," Arthur said.

"Well, it was a game of spin the bottle, which was quickly followed up by truth or dare," Francis said, struggling to stand up. His shirt was half-unbuttoned, showing off a toned chest underneath. "There was a lot of drinking. Gilbert had the wicked idea of Lovino streaking around London."

Arthur visibly blanched while Alfred roared in laughter.

"Someone mentioned the awesome me?" Gilbert asked, striding in with a fluffy towel around his neck. His white locks were plastered on his face, indicating that he had taken a shower. "Alright, listen up! Since you all are unfortunately still here, you guys might as well help with the clean up."

Groans of disbelief sounded throughout the room. Alfred whined in annoyance, pointedly looking away from the mess on the floor. "C'mon, dude? Really? It's your house, you and Ludwig could get some cleaners over, right?"

"_Mon Dieu_," Francis muttered, his foot nudging a bowl which contained soggy chips and Coke.

"Kesesese! We would, but there's an urgent situation here. You see, I'm going to pick up someone from the airport soon. Some transfer student from Canada, who's going to be in the same university with us." Gilbert laughed, seeming to find the whole idea entertaining. "He's gonna be living here with _bruder_ and I for the next few months, so it wouldn't be good to show him the house like this."

"Why not?" Arthur grumbled. "It'd show him how much of a nutter you are."

Gilbert's crimson eyes widened – Arthur was listening, and had actually _responded_ to something that didn't directly involve him. From a corner, Francis smiled. Alfred whistled tunelessly, not understanding the implication of what had just happened.

Thankfully, Gilbert recovered quickly. "Well, he could join my awesome parties!"

"Parties which I'd pay _not _to attend."

"Come on," Gilbert insisted. "It was awesome. Admit it."

"Falling into a pool would not be my definition of 'awesome'."

"You were drunk," Alfred piped up, stacking a pile of dirty dishes on his hands.

Arthur sent Alfred a look that clearly read, 'are-you-fucking-kidding-me'? Nevertheless, the Brit bent down and began picking up empty beer bottles, swearing under his breath as he did.

Gilbert grabbed a bunch of keys from the table. "When the cleaning's done, you guys have two options – one, go back home or two, stay and meet my new awesome housemate." He laughed again, as if he was making a hilarious joke. "Well, be back soon."

The door slammed shut, leaving Alfred, Arthur and Francis behind.

"Well," Francis said with a sigh, "I suppose we should get on with it, _non_?"

* * *

"There! All done! Damn, all this cleaning made me hungry," Alfred said, tossing the last few bags of rubbish away into the bin. He paused, realization hitting. "Wait, we never even got to have breakfast!"

The look of mortification on the American's face made Arthur snort. The Brit pulled on his coat – which had miraculously remained untouched throughout last night's fiasco – and headed for the door, not bothering to say goodbye to the two other individuals in the room.

_Time to leave._

"Artieeee!" Alfred wailed, grabbing Arthur by the wrist. "Where ya' going?"

…_Or not. _

Arthur roughly slapped the American's hands away. "Home, obviously."

"I'll give you a ride. My car's just 'round the corner."

"What?" Arthur raised his eyebrows incredulously. "I'll manage fine, thank you very much."

"But it's raining outside!"

Francis watched the exchange between the duo with interest. He had walked in onto them a few hours ago – half-drunk, but still sober enough to recognize adorable situations as he knew them. Arthur and Alfred had been sleeping soundly, their arms entwined around each other, both looking so peaceful under the moonlight. Francis had no idea how he had managed it, but he had been able to drape a blanket around Arthur and Alfred before stumbling back into the living room, where he promptly passed out.

"My place is only a fifteen-minute walk from here," Arthur protested, looking baffled.

"The hero's not taking a 'no' for an answer!" Alfred said.

Arthur made a show of clapping his hands around his ears. "Fine, fine! Goddammit, you're really loud, aren't you?"

Francis smiled to himself. If there was anyone who could drag Arthur out from his shell, then it was definitely Alfred. Perhaps it would take time, but it was certainly possible. He didn't know the American well, but he seemed to be getting on Arthur's nerves – in the right way, of course. When was the last time Arthur had been this animated?

_Did Arthur even realize this himself?_

The smile stayed on Francis' face even when Gilbert's car pulled in just as Alfred drove away, a snarling Brit by his side.

* * *

**I tried to do the angst, I tried to add some humor. I tried. I tried. *hides***

**Annnndddd Matthew arrives in the equation. I KNOW, I KNOW, THIS IS SUPER CLICHED. I'm so sorry! Gahhhh. Oh, Alfred, if only you knew how close you were to meeting Matthew...  
**

**Please, please, please review! :3  
**

**- Anne**


	7. Chapter 7

**In this chapter, you have some Alfred and Arthur, a curious Peter, a new-to-this-whole-thing Matthew, Gilbert, and Francis.**

**Have I mentioned how much I love y'all? *sniffs* Thank you for all the reviews so far! *gives out free candy***

* * *

"So," Alfred asked, his hands on the steering wheel, "Where's your place at?"

Arthur cleared his throat. "Ah, just at the end of Erin Street – that row of apartments. I live up at fifty."

"Okay."

The American then lapsed into silence – a stark contrast to the usual cheeriness he showed. Arthur shifted uneasily in his seat – although Alfred's baby-blue eyes were fixed on the road, there was a glazed, faraway look in them. It was as if he was looking, but not truly _seeing._ The American's lips were pressed into a firm line, making it almost seem like he was frowning.

Arthur recognized that expression – it was the same one that Alfred wore when he had been staring out of the window back at Ludwig's house. There had been something like hopelessness on the American's face, a weariness that seemed to weigh him down.

The Brit found it strange, for he never imagined Alfred being capable of making an expression like that. Dimly, Arthur thought that it didn't suit the American at all – it was just disconcerting to see him that way. There was probably a reason, though – hadn't Alfred been murmuring about someone else? A _him_?

None of it concerned Arthur, of course. The Brit mentally berated himself for his curiousity – this was _Alfred,_ for goodness sake. Unlike Alfred who barreled into the problems of others without knowing what privacy meant, Arthur was a gentleman. He wouldn't pry. If Alfred had his problems, well, then so be it. It was none of Arthur's business, and he wasn't going to play hero just to ease up any of that guilty conscience or helplessness that he felt.

_Was there a reason why Alfred was so bent on being a hero, though? _

"Here," Alfred said, easing the car to a stop in front of Arthur's apartment. The Brit unbuckled his seatbelt, climbing out despite the rain. He stood there for a while, uncertain of what to say.

"Thank you for the ride."

A smile ghosted across Alfred's face. "Sure."

That was Arthur's cue, wasn't it? To slam the door shut – to watch Alfred drive away – to return to his normal life where there would be no irritating Americans, perverted Frenchmen or annoying German sparkle parties. Wasn't that what Arthur wanted?

"Do you…" Arthur cursed himself for what he was about to say. "Do you want to come in and have some breakfast?"

Alfred blinked, surprise and confusion flashing in his eyes.

"Don't get any ideas, you twat. It's not like I'm doing it for you or anything." The Brit hastily turned away from Alfred, feeling the tips of his ears burn in embarrassment. "I've just got some extra food, that's all."

There was a brief period of silence, but then Alfred turned the engine off and stepped out of the car. Arthur still had his back turned, but he could tell the American smiling. "Sure, dude."

* * *

"Arthur! You're back! How was the party?"

"It was…"

_Horrible, headache-inducing, a waste of my bloody time –_

"…Eventful." Arthur forced a smile on his face. "Have Berwald and Tino been treating you well?"

Peter grinned. "Yeah! We watched movies and had an early night. They left just a while ago." The grin faded when Peter noticed that there was someone else behind Arthur. "Who's this?"

"Ah. This is, uh…"

"Hiya! I'm Alfred Jones, friend of Arthur's." Alfred cracked a wide smile, noting how this young boy seemed to resemble Arthur – his hair wasn't quite as blond, but those massive eyebrows were definitely proof that they were related. "You're his bro?"

"Yeah. I'm Peter." For the next few moments, Peter seemed to stare at Alfred with a mixture of curiosity, awe and respect. He chewed his lip, looking nervous. "Do you like video games?"

Alfred laughed – it was boisterous, ringing out in the apartment's emptiness. "Like? Dude, I practically _live_ on them!"

"R-really?" Peter's eyebrows hiked up into his hairline. He looked shocked yet pleased at the same time.

"Of course! What're your favourites?"

The teenager's face lit up. "I'll show you!"

Arthur stifled a groan. Leave it to his curious brother to make conversation with the annoying American. They probably wouldn't shut up afterwards. Why did he invite Alfred into the apartment in the first place anyway? Oh, right. Breakfast. Of course. Arthur stepped into the kitchen, deciding to see what was left in the fridge.

"Arthur!" Peter's muffled voice called out. "Can I get my video games out from your room?"

_Old canned soup, some strips of meat from the supermarket – well, that wouldn't do – _

"Why's your stuff in his room?" Alfred's incredulous question rang out.

_Peas, potatoes, some expired sweet sauce -_

"Arthur's worried I'll spend too much time on them." Even from the kitchen, Arthur could envision Peter rolling his eyes. "So, Arthur, can I?"

A cup of yoghurt rolled over and crashed onto Arthur's toes. _Well, fuck._

"_Arthurrrrr?_ Can I?"

"_Ar-tieeeeee!_"

"Fine, fine!" Arthur barked through a handful of pastries, tempted to shove Alfred out of a window. The American and his brother were definitely joining forces now. "Take it and leave – don't you dare touch anything else!"

There was a cheer and the sound of Alfred and Peter high-fiving each other.

Arthur shook his head in disdain, returning to his task of preparing breakfast.

_Kids._

* * *

"There's a second-hand console in my room, but Arthur wants the video games to be kept in his," Peter said. He pushed the door of Arthur's room open and walked in while Alfred tailed behind. "Careful, brother's quite particular of his things."

Alfred's jaw dropped. "Holy shit."

The American's old room when he was a teenager had been messy – but this was an entire matter altogether. Arthur's room_ definitely_ needed a major clean-up. The entire expanse smelled musty, and Alfred suspected that the dust-covered windows hadn't been touched for a long time. A worn-looking desk by the corner was piled to the brim with books – some flipped open, some with plain bookmarks in them. An equally worn-looking laptop sat on them, along with an empty tea-stained cup. Wrinkled clothes were haphazardly spread on the covers – covers that looked like they had been turned inside out. Boxes sat on the edge of the bed, some still taped and unopened.

Still, it was the_ walls_ of Arthur's room that shocked Alfred the most. Almost every single inch of it was plastered with papers, schedules and printed cut-outs. Arthur's slanted handwriting could be seen on most of them – Alfred wasn't close enough to make out what they said, but it probably was some sort of complicated jargon that was unheard of.

"Your brother…Artie…damn, is he some sort of genius?" Alfred asked, gaping. He had his own suspicions that Arthur's goody-two-shoes attitude stemmed from being some sort of a model student, but even that was an understatement. This room clearly belonged to an obsessive student.

Peter was rummaging through a shelf, pulling out an assortment of video games. "Mm-hmm. Something like that." He looked up at Alfred, an uncharacteristically sharp look on his young face. "Hey, are you really my brother's friend?"

Alfred smiled lightly. "I'd like to think of it that way."

"You don't seem to know him too well."

"Touché."

"…Who are you, really?" Peter asked quietly, clutching the stack of discs to his chest. "Are you someone who'll help him? Like…like one of those psychiatrists?"

_Psychiatrists?_ "Well, you can think of me as a hero. One that'll save others, no matter what. It's something that I wanna do." Alfred chuckled deeply. "Arthur's a difficult one, but it's the duty of a hero to help him out. It's true that I don't know him well yet, but it'll come in due time."

_Well, hopefully._

"You're a hero?" There was nothing skeptical in Peter's voice, but it was filled with yearning and childlike wonder.

"Yep!"

"Whatever you do, don't hurt him," Peter pleaded. "I know it's strange to say this to someone I've just met, but please, anything but that. My brother doesn't need to go through that anymore." He sighed sadly, flopping onto Arthur's bed. Alfred, on the other hand, made himself comfortable on whatever minimal space that was left on the floor. "You're not originally from around London, are you, mister?"

"Call me Alfred," Alfred said, choosing not to react to Peter's plea. It was probably wise not to do so at the moment. "And no, I'm not. Just moved here not too long ago – for my new job and a new life, complicated stuff like that."

"A new job? What do you do?"

"I work for the newspaper," Alfred replied, choosing not to be specific on the role he played.

"And...are you happy here? In London?"

Alfred blinked. Peter's innocent question had caught him off-guard, not that he'd ever admit it. "Sorta. London's pretty rainy, ya' know? I've met amazing people though, so that's cool."

"Including my brother?"

The American smirked. "Including Artie."

Peter smiled in satisfaction at Alfred's answer, proceeding to change the topic. He showed the American the video games he had acquired, talking about the ones he liked. Alfred listened patiently, joining in and giving him his opinion every now and then. It was obvious that the Kirkland brothers didn't share the same hobbies, and Alfred was one of the few video game enthusiasts that Peter knew.

The American's gaze slid around the room again as Peter spoke, this time slowly and carefully.

_A person's room spoke volumes about them._

There were no photos in Arthur's room – no posters – _nothing_ that indicated that this was his room. Arthur's room felt…dead. There was no other word for it. Even Alfred had seen cozier workplaces and basements. It was ironic, for the room was practically bursting at the seams with its madness – and yet it didn't feel alive. If anything, it felt flat, devoid of any emotion that should have existed.

A sense of urgency grew in the American's gut and he tried to ignore it, hoping that his theories about the Brit was wrong.

_Was it possible to salvage anything that was left of Arthur - or was he already dead to everything else in this world?  
_

* * *

Matthew stared at the house – no, mansion – in front of him, uncertain of what to expect. From the online conversations he previously had with the albino before coming over, he had known that the German's parents were rarely home, which left him and his brother in control of the house. Gilbert had boasted, of course, but this…

Gilbert poked his shoulder, trying to gain his attention. "Pretty awesome, don't you think?"

Matthew nodded dumbly. "It's…impressive."

"You'll love the inside even more," Gilbert said with a wink. "We had this awesome party last night – you should've seen it. Arthur got pretty drunk, Lovino was freaking out, Kiku wasn't giving a shit, and…"

Matthew politely kept up with the conversation, not recognizing any of the names Gilbert had mentioned. They were obviously Gilbert's friends. Meanwhile, Kumajirou shifted in the Canadian's arms – Matthew could feel the little polar bear's stomach growl in hunger, having not eaten anything throughout the entire flight. Bringing Kumajirou along to London had been a complicated process, but he had managed.

"Where'd you get that bear from, Birdie?"

"I'm sorry – but what did you just call me?" Matthew questioned, his eyebrows scrunched in confusion – he could lip-read most names, but not this one. Was it something German? _Oh, well,_ he thought. _Here we go again._

Things had been difficult over the years when Matthew struggled against the problems of being deaf. Lip-reading wasn't easy, and had taken a long time to master. Still, even with years of practice, things often went wrong. He would end up misunderstanding what others said. Sometimes they jeered at Matthew, hollering rude words and insults directly into his ears, knowing that he couldn't hear them. Those who were a little more daring would tease him upfront – Matthew knew they were laughing at him from the way they had their jaws wide and eyes closed with mirth – and yet all that he could hear was cold, dead silence. _It had hurt._

But Gilbert didn't even seem fazed. He merely grinned and repeated, "Bir-die."

"Bir…birdie?" Matthew attempted.

"Yep." Matthew watched as Gilbert sucked his cheeks in and whistled. A fluffy yellow bird flew over, landing on the albino's fingers. "This is Gilbird here. He's been my best friend for a long time."

Matthew watched, transfixed. He had just been nicknamed after a _bird_. The Canadian had no idea whether to feel flattered or disappointed.

Realizing that he hadn't answered Gilbert's previous question, Matthew held the snowy bear out and said, "I got Kuma…Kumajirou a long time ago when I was still very young…uh…it was something like a gift from someone important, I suppose." He smiled gently. "Kuma's always hungry."

As if responding to the Canadian's words, the polar bear whined a little in displeasure.

Gilbert shrugged. "Well, that's fine. I'm sure there's some fish in the fridge that he'd like." The German pushed the door to the living room open, satisfied that it was now rubbish and puke-free. A certain French was splayed on the couch in the middle of the room, eyes closed and breathing lightly. "Oi, Francis! Wake up and meet little Birdie here!"

Francis cracked an eye open, taking in the figure next to Gilbert. The boy had wavy sandy-coloured locks and wore glasses, obscuring a pair of mauve eyes. There was something in the way he carried himself, together with the strange pet he had in his arms. He couldn't exactly figure it out now, but perhaps in due time...

"_Bonjour_," Francis greeted, taking the boy's face gently in his hands. "What is your name,_ ma petite fleur_?"

"A-ah…" The boy stammered, his face taking on a hue of pink. He wasn't used to such intimate gestures - and was that _French_? He had taken it up in high school, but he was never that good in it. "Matthew. Matthew Williams."

Francis nodded, smiling kindly. "Mathieu. My name is Francis Bonnefoy. Are you the exchange student from Canada that Gilbert has been talking about?"

"Eh? Yes, t-that's me."

"How thrilling! It is a pleasure to meet you. Gilbert can be an ass sometimes…" At this, Gilbert cracked a maniacal grin and shoved the French hard in the waist. Francis fell to his knees and wheezed, looking up at Matthew with pain shining in his eyes. "…But you'll get used to it. You can come to me if you ever need help. In fact, I can even show you around the campus tomorrow. You'll get along well with Yao, Kiku - even Arthur, I believe..."

"Birdie will be fine with the awesome me," Gilbert said with a snort.

"Not when you're too busy…what is that word? Ah, _stroking_ your ego."

Gilbert cackled, catching the underlying meaning of the Frenchman's words. "A man's gotta give his five metres a treat once in a while! At least I don't stick it into places where it doesn't belong."

"Well, when was the last time you ever had the chance to even do so?" Francis asked smoothly. "I remember hearing something about that Hungarian girl…"

Matthew watched the conversation fly back and forth between Francis and Gilbert. Despite the shoving and elbowing, it was obvious that Gilbert and Francis were close friends – acting like brothers, even. He couldn't quite catch what they were saying – their lips were moving too fast, not to mention that they weren't exactly facing him – but Matthew felt the hope rise within him, bubbling warmly in his chest. This would be a new starting point for him.

The Canadian felt a faint smile curve on his face. _Time to leave the old ghosts in the past, eh?_

After all, it had been a long time since Alfred was gone from his life. It was time – time to _forget._

* * *

**o_o Still can't decide between Franada and PruCan. Help me out?**

**Reviews are like candy. FEED ME WITH 'EM.  
**

**Happy Halloween!**

**- Anne**


	8. Chapter 8

**Be prepared for some Arthur-centric angst, a confused Matthew, a determined Alfred, and the angst between Alfred and Arthur at the end. :D Enjoy.  
**

* * *

"_Where have you been? Class was over an hour ago!" Arthur looked up to see the displeased glare of his mother, who had her hands planted on her hips. "Have you forgotten? The duke of Canterbury wants to meet you today. I remember telling you this last week. You were supposed to come home as soon as school finished!" _

"_We had some extra issues to discuss in today's Student Council meeting," Arthur replied stonily, flinging his school bag to the corner of the room. Bloody hell, he felt exhausted – and there was definitely a headache creeping up on him. Perhaps some aspirin would do the trick. "Francis made some mistakes with the budgets and Yao was brainstorming for the upcoming art exhibition." _

"_Francis – that's the French boy, isn't it? I can see why he made mistakes – and why are you entrusting such an important event to Yao?" Arthur's mother tittered, wrinkling her nose in distaste. "Don't leave your bag there by the way, your father's friends are stopping by later and we don't want them knowing how much of a ridiculous, shameful slob his eldest son is. Honestly, what is it with you nowadays? I have always known that the teachers are soft on you, but this is simply unacceptable. You are already on the road to failure, Arthur." _

_Arthur arranged his face to what he hoped was a smooth, neutral expression. The last of her words stung, but he would never show it.  
_

"_Francis and Yao are some of the most capable students in our school, mother." _

"_Of course," she said with a sneer, "But y__ou're losing focus, my dear. __You need to be the one behind the helm in order to shine. Everything has to be handled by you, or they will never remember your name. It is only a matter of time before you lose your place in this world." _

"_I'm already the Student Council President, mother. They know who's behind the helm." _

"_Certainly." And there it was again – his mother's voice of contempt. "But that's not all there is to it. You understand how important you are to the image of our family, don't you? Being good is never good enough, my dear boy. You are merely a weak, useless fawn who knows nothing but naivety." _

_Her words were poison – a different kind of poison, but still poison nonetheless. Arthur gritted his teeth and tried to ignore the droning voice of his mother, but it was impossible. _

"_I…I'm trying, mother." _

"_What good is trying?" The pitch of her voice increased, and before Arthur knew it, his mother was screaming. It shattered the stillness of the house, echoing against the cold, hard walls. "You aren't good enough, Arthur Kirkland, and neither your father nor I will accept you as anything worthy until you actually go out there and achieve something!" _

"_B-but…"_

_He was cut off. "Get changed. You have a duke to meet." _

"_I…I…" Arthur didn't have a chance to mention it, but he was pretty sure that he was running a fever. Chills were wracking his entire body, and there was definitely a scratchy, tingling sensation at the back of his throat. "I don't think I'm feeling too well, mother…"_

"_I SAID, GET CHANGED!" _

_Arthur ran, ignoring the woeful look Peter sent to him on the way to his room. He slammed the door so hard that the hinges squeaked, sinking onto the floor and feeling the heaviness of his mother's words on him. His head continued throbbing with an intense ferocity, and there was a sourness in his mouth that he couldn't quite place. Without pausing, Arthur rushed himself to the bathroom and allowed the dry heaving to take over. _

_Arthur had had enough. He had been tolerant for far too long. It was the same thing day after day, month after month, year after year. He was trying. He was always, always trying. Over the years he had strained his mental and physical capacity to the maximum, putting all his effort in for – for…what the bloody hell would it be for? Would he work himself to the bone for an entire life, never meeting the expectations of anyone? _

_Would he ever be good enough for anything?_

_He buried his face into his hands, feeling a bitter laugh escape. It was time to put this to an end. Arthur would prove to both his parents that their eldest son was capable of doing something, after all. If Arthur couldn't rise to the Kirkland family name, then he would destroy it. He would burn everything down and watch everything that tormented him perish. If they didn't need him, then he didn't need them either._

_Arthur never thought about how his thoughts and decisions would destroy everyone's life - including his own.  
_

* * *

When a pale hand gave him a friendly shove, Arthur looked up from his book with a half-eaten sandwich in hand, irritated at being interrupted. He generally hid away from the student population in order to avoid any pointless conversations, but today was apparently not going to be one of those days.

"Arthur! Finally! We've been trying to find you throughout the week, but you don't use a cellphone and it's hard to catch you in this hellhole of a campus!" Gilbert exclaimed, a triumphant smirk on his face. "Studying during lunch break? That's so unawesome, man."

"It's called being on track, Gilbert, something you have no knowledge of." Arthur looked up to the albino, green eyes narrowing. "Alright, what do you need this time?"

Gilbert gave a mock pout. "What? Can't I even say hi to an old friend?"

Arthur gave a snort and turned back to his book, flipping a page as he did. "Sod off, will you? I have a chapter to finish."

"Now is not the time to be defensive, Arthur," Francis said from next to Gilbert.

The Brit raised an eyebrow. "The frog, too? Heavens, you all must be desperate."

"Come off it," Gilbert said, sounding very tired for once. "We're just here to introduce someone to you."

It was just then that Arthur noticed that there was someone standing between Gilbert and Francis – he looked young, possessing wavy blond hair and mauve eyes. There was a pair of horn-rimmed glasses on his nose and a snowy bear in his arms. This man – no, Arthur corrected, _boy_ – _he looked no older than twenty_ – appeared to be nervous, for his eyes seemed to dart around, scrutinizing the cafeteria warily.

How odd, Arthur thought. There was something about this boy that looked familiar. Although the mannerisms were slightly different and the bear's presence itself was strange, the boy had an uncanny physical resemblance to someone Arthur had seen before. He couldn't figure out who, though.

Ah, well, it would come in time. Where were his manners?

"Hello, I'm Arthur Kirkland."

"I-I'm Matthew Williams."

They shook hands formally – Arthur's grip was firm while Matthew's was passive.

"Birdie here's new – just came from Canada," Gilbert said, casually placing a hand on Matthew's left shoulder.

Arthur nodded. "So this is the one who'll be living with you and Ludwig from now onwards?"

"Yep. It's gonna be awesome!"

"I 'ave been 'elping by showing Mathieu around the campus," Francis interjected. His hand went on Matthew's right shoulder in a suave, almost possessive manner. There was a mischievous sparkle in his blue eyes.

"I feel sorry for you," the Brit deadpanned, noticing how the German and the Frenchman had already begun their not-too-subtle movements on the Canadian.

Matthew merely smiled at Arthur, oblivious to the affections of the two grown men next to him. It was a happy feeling to have the duo be by his side, and Matthew was contented. Gilbert and Francis didn't seem to be bothered by his disability, nor did they ask any nosy questions on it. The transition to London from Canada was becoming easier and easier - he was feeling at home already.

However, Matthew noticed that Arthur had given him an odd stare earlier on when they were introduced. The Brit had frowned in concentration, as if finding him familiar but not exactly recognizing his identity. _What was that about?_

"Now that the introductions are over and done with," Francis said, clapping his hands together with a smile, "Shall we all 'ave lunch together?"

Gilbert grinned. "Hell yeah. I'm starving."

Matthew laughed. He had shared the first lecture together with Francis and Gilbert, who had both insisted on sitting next to him in case he needed any help. The albino, however, had fallen asleep just ten minutes into the lecture. He had been sprawled across the table, crimson eyes closed and mouth hanging slightly open. Francis had rolled his eyes in a dignified manner and pulled Matthew away, stating that Gilbert's sleepy habits were contagious.

"It's a shame that I have to take my leave now," Arthur said sardonically. He finished his sandwich and marked the page he was last at, standing up to leave.

"What? Ditching us already? That's not awesome, man."

"At least stay for a little while more, _mon ami_."

"Can't," Arthur said breezily. "I have to go. Busy life and all, you know? The academic dean wants to meet me in his office later at two."

"Arthur," Francis protested, "It's only one!"

But Arthur was already walking away, not even looking or waving back. He hadn't even bothered to say a simple goodbye.

Francis sighed. "_Mon dieu_, and I thought things with Arthur were improving…"

"Yeah," Gilbert grumbled, "With Alfred around…"

Matthew was blinking at the wurst Gilbert had insisted for lunch, not paying attention to what the two friends were talking about. He only managed to glance up once to catch the few words that tumbled out of Gilbert's mouth.

"_Especially since tomorrow is the fourth of July…"_

* * *

Arthur could already hear energetic laughter and triumphant yells emerging from the apartment before he had even entered. He tightened his grip on the door knob, a dark scowl crossing his face.

_It was the fourth time this week, for goodness sake!_

Ever since Alfred had been in Arthur's apartment once for breakfast, things had been spiraling out of control. The American and Peter had bonded immediately, something which Arthur hadn't anticipated. Alfred and Peter had traded jokes and grins through mouthfuls of pastries, making small talk about video games and comic book collections. Arthur had ignored it, thinking that this was the last of Alfred Jones he would be seeing - but he was mistaken.

Alfred insisted on dropping by regularly after that. The American would always come with enough jelly doughnuts, hamburgers and milkshakes to fill an entire sweetshop. There would always be a goofy grin on his face, accompanied by his trademark boisterous laughter that Arthur detested so much. The worst thing of all was that Alfred's presence was always appreciated by Peter. Soon enough, Alfred was the only thing that Peter wanted to talk about. It would be Alfred this, Alfred that. Alfred showed me this, Alfred taught me that.

Frankly speaking, it was pissing Arthur off. He didn't know how the American got along so well with his brother, and it was time to put a stop to it. Alfred would only become a bad influence on the younger Kirkland, and Arthur didn't want it happening under his nose.

He stormed into the apartment to see Alfred and Peter trying to nuke each other out on a video game. The younger Kirkland was clearly winning. His cheery laughter filled the air, happy and contented. Alfred, though losing, didn't seem to be upset.

Arthur yanked the cord of the television out, watching dispassionately as the screen faded into darkness and Peter's laughter died away. A tense silence filled the air _–_ silence which Alfred was the first to break.

"Hey Artie, back from class already?"

Arthur was not in the mood to put up with Alfred today. He pointed a finger to the door, the tone of his voice icy. "I think you know the way out, Jones."

Alfred's eyes widened in confusion and he tilted his head to one side, not understanding why Arthur was being so unfriendly. Meanwhile, Peter was looking at his elder brother with something like realization dawning on his face. The younger Kirkland hadn't thought about it earlier on, but today…_today was…_

Alfred tried again. "What's wrong? I've only just been here for fifteen minutes, and…"

"Get out. Now."

"Arthur..."

"OUT!" Arthur roared.

"Dude, you're being unreasonable. You were never pissy those other times I came over." Alfred's face scrunched up, and he quickly corrected himself. "I mean, you were _always_ princess-pissy, but it was never this bad if ya' get what I mean."

"Only because I pitied your pathetic excuse of a brain to come and spend some time here," Arthur sneered. Somewhere within his mind, a sane part was screaming at him to calm down, to stop blurting out things he didn't understand _–_ but the anger was powerful. It overwhelmed him, clouding his judgement. "Now get your arse out before I actually _make_ you."

There was a moment of silence before Alfred whirled to Arthur, something like fire burning in his hard blue eyes. "You know what, Artie? I think I've told 'ya before on how your actions actually hurt others." The American stood up and eyed Arthur firmly, determined to get his message across. "This isn't even about your friends anymore. You're killing those who're the most important to 'ya and 'ya don't even _know _it. Something's gotta be done before the truth hits and causes you to drown in 'ya own guilt."

Something like panic seemed to rise in Arthur's chest. Those words were familiar, yes, but...

"Peter, you…you've been talking to Alfred," Arthur whispered, the knowledge of it hitting him like a ton of bricks. "About many things. Just what exactly…" The pressure of it drained the remaining strength he had, making him feel lightheaded. Arthur felt betrayed – betrayed by the one person whom he had vowed to dedicate everything to ever since the death of his parents.

How? Why? Peter was confiding to _Alfred_, of all things. They weren't just videogame buddies anymore – they were becoming friends, and Alfred was taking over Arthur's role as being Peter's brother. Hadn't Arthur sworn to be the one to protect Peter – especially after all that they had been through? Why was Peter trusting this annoying American, who had no place in the family at all?

Alfred's tone was full of conviction. "Arthur, you'll have to trust me."

_No!_

Arthur couldn't find himself to trust Alfred. It wasn't like Alfred would understand anything in the first place anyway. Even if he did, what could he do? Comfort Arthur in a web full of lies? What was the point of Alfred staying by someone like Arthur? Was it just so he could play hero to fulfill his desires?

Did he want to be Arthur's friend? But Arthur didn't need any! He didn't want to open his heart up to anyone – especially not to someone like Alfred Jones. Alfred only stirred up trouble in his life, awakening emotions that he hadn't wanted to feel for a long time. It was the feeling…that strange feeling of craving for something…something that he had always wanted, but didn't recognize. Arthur felt a wave of helplessness, knowing he had to force this need away before it thrived on him like a parasite. The Brit had tried so hard to seal his emotions away. He had tried so hard not to _feel_, not to _need. _

"Artie," Alfred sighed, the anger gone from his face. He could read the expression on Arthur's face. It was stubborn, angry and yet filled with so much agony that it made the American's heart clench. "Please, I have no intention of hurting you. Please…"

"I…" Arthur croaked, reaching for the door. "I'll just be going."

"Artie, wait up!"

"Brother!"

But Arthur was already gone.

"Alfred," Peter murmured urgently, tugging at Alfred's bomber jacket. "Go after my brother. Please. He can't be alone – especially not on a day like this."

"A day like this? What d'ya mean?"

"Do you know what today's date is?"

"July the fourth," Alfred replied automatically. "Why? Is there something I should know about?"

"Well…yes," Peter said hesitantly, giving Alfred a sad smile. "You see, my parents were killed in the fire on this day two years ago. You can say that today…is their death anniversary."

Alfred gaped. Suddenly, everything made sense. Arthur's anger, his defensiveness, the way he was in so much pain…it had always been bad, Alfred knew, but it _would_ be worse today. The American cursed, throwing the hood of his jacket over his hair. Something had to be done.

"He…I think…he would've gone to the cemetery nearby where my parents were buried to be alone," Peter added. "I'll be alright here. Please, just go after my brother."

The American nodded, determination written all over his face. "Don't worry. I'll definitely bring Arthur back."

Then Alfred Jones was out of the door and into the pouring rain, searching for the man he desperately wanted to save.

* * *

**Please review. :3 **

**And oh, prepare yourself for another heart-to-heart conversation between Arthur and Alfred in the next chapter. The romance...it will bloom. I'm sorry if the angst felt slightly off. I must admit that I'm not an expert in it. July fourth - US UK angst, anyone?  
**

**- Anne**


	9. Chapter 9

**One - USUK, with dashes of angst here and there - Alfredcentric, mostly. ****Two - incoming PruxCanxFrance relationship triangle. Mentions of pancakes, with possible cliffhangers around. This chapter, I'm telling you, was perhaps one of the most challenging ones to write yet. **

******Disclaimer: I do not own Hetalia.**

* * *

Epic Burger Hero,

My beloved runs away frantically whenever he sees me. Is this, perhaps, a challenge? I _have_ proved my determination, for walls and doorknobs are never a hindrance for me. He may possibly want more – should I crawl into bed and wait for him to return from work?

He must marry me. He _must!_ I'll murder anyone – male or female – who dares to lay a claim on him!

_**Nat**_

* * *

Nat,

Whoa, chill out! Let's keep this on the papers without the murder bit, alright? _Alright?_ Good. Now, face it – your man's afraid! Seriously, take a hint. Stop breaking and entering. Try courting him in the ol'-fashioned manner – y'know, dinner, maybe – without throwing all the wedding talk in the poor dude's face.

_**Epic Burger Hero**_

* * *

_Hola!_

The person I love always seems to be cranky. It's what makes him adorable and I don't want him to change, but sometimes I find myself growing...weary. Is it so hard to see him smile or to have a kind word from him once in a while?

_**Churros**_

* * *

Churros,

Why not have an honest talk with him? Tell him sincerely that while you don't want him to change, you wanna see him happy too!

_**Epic Burger Hero**_

* * *

When Alfred was younger, being a hero was easy. It didn't matter whether it was defending the young girl against bullies at the playground or feeding the neighbour's cat whenever they were out – Alfred always helped anyone who needed it, even if there wasn't anything offered to him in return. He wanted to be _everyone's_ hero. There was just something perfect and inspirational in being one – being a hero meant that he would repair anything that needed fixing, provide the helping hand that anyone needed. Being a hero had been simple – watering the shrivelled plants next door, assisting the old lady in crossing the road – all it needed was some extra time and effort that others could not provide. He loved being a hero. He loved seeing the people around him smile.

_Everything was going on so well - until he had failed to protect the very one person who mattered the most._

"The cemetery…the cemetery…where the hell's that?" Alfred muttered, ignoring the raindrops spattered across his glasses. The rain was coming down in torrents, its cold descending on him like an icy wave.

There was no time - he had to hurry. It was as if Arthur was a spark, reigniting the American's desperate need of not wanting to see anything fall apart again. But why? Why was Alfred trying so hard? Arthur had shoved him away – Arthur _hated_ him. The American knew he could've been in his flat on a frigid day like this, chilling with a coffee and some video games.

"…That's 'cause I swore to myself that I'd never fail again."

He already knew the answer, but saying it aloud made him feel better anyway.

Alfred skidded to a stop, muddy water sloshing over his trainers. This was no doubt one of London's oldest cemeteries. Ivy grew through the cracks in ancient brick walls, entwining and reaching wrought iron gates that were covered in rust. A towering oak tree shaded most of the cemetery from view, its branches looming into the grey sky.

The American clenched his fists. He never liked entering cemeteries – it was like trespassing the home of the dead, breaking some sort of sacred vow. The eeriness of being there was always unsettling. Alfred knew it was stupid, but the mere thought of spirits and ghosts freaked him out. It would probably be a good idea to leave...wouldn't it?

_But Arthur was somewhere in there – cold, helpless and alone._

That thought chased away any lingering doubts in Alfred's mind. He gave the gates a firm push, ignoring the metallic groan he got in response. Although most cemeteries were well-kept, this one was overrun with weeds and shrubbery. Arthur was at kneeling, green eyes focused on the carving of an angel on top of a particular gravestone. Its eyes were closed, with raindrops sliding off granite cheeks making it seem like it was weeping.

"Arthur!"

Alfred jogged up and reached a hand out – but then he faltered. While he was tempted to grab the Brit into a bone-crushing hug, another part of him was…_afraid_ to do so. Arthur looked so fragile – he reminded Alfred of one of those porcelain dolls that shattered upon rough contact. What was he supposed to do?

"_Alice and James Kirkland...were at the height of their lives_," Arthur recited tonelessly, earning a startled gasp from the American. "_They were well-known in Britain's upper circles, where long-lasting friendships were forged. Happiness was always found in the Kirkland household, where Alice especially treated her two sons with tender affection._" At this, Arthur gave a bitter laugh, finally turning up to face Alfred. "…Well, that was what everyone else said anyway. Tabloids, newspapers, broadcasting services – all sang praises for my parents after they died."

"…And?" Alfred asked quietly. "Were those people telling the truth?"

Arthur remained silent for a moment before answering. "No, they weren't."

Alfred waited for an explanation, but none came. Arthur's fingers brushed a grave marker with the initials of Alice Kirkland absent-mindedly, his lips pressed into a thin line.

"How much has Peter told you?"

Alfred sat down, his shoulders barely brushing Arthur's. "…Enough."

"Enough for you to continue playing hero?" Arthur's voice was soft, but the harshness in it was unmistakeable. "How long will you continue to interfere? I've said it before, but I'll say this again. _I don't need you around_. When will that ever sink in, you dimwit?"

Alfred chuckled. "Told 'ya before, haven't I? I'm staying, Artie, and I'm gonna be around 'til the very end." The American paused, wrinkling his eyebrows. "Damn, that didn't come out right. Too cheesy. What I meant was – I _want_ to stay. And if 'ya decide on hurting yourself for an entire life, then I'll stick by your stubborn ass and try to talk 'ya out of it 'til the very end. That's a promise."

"Why, then? Why allow yourself to be bogged down by a pathetic man – a 'stubborn ass', as you wisely put – for an entire life?" When he received no answer from Alfred, Arthur spoke again – this time with a hint of bitter triumph in his tone. "I knew you wouldn't have an answer for that. Take my advice, Alfred. Don't be daft – stop the foolishness of making promises you cannot keep. "

"It's a promise that I can keep!" Alfred retorted hotly, feeling blind hurt and anger wash through him. Arthur's words had struck him deeply, bringing out the raw pain and regret Alfred had struggled to bottle away for so long. The image of a young Matthew flitted into existence – _Matthew and his wavy blond hair – Matthew, with that compassionate smile on his face –_ "The hero always keeps his promises. ALWAYS!"

"The promise of always willing to be there for someone is a heavy one," Arthur said coolly. "Do you realize just how much a pledge like that is worth? People don't value it enough – and I've seen what happens when they're broken." His emerald eyes wandered to dreary skies, blinking drops of rain away. "Promises like that are time bombs waiting to tear people apart. They're nothing more but words to make people feel better. You're like that too, aren't you, Alfred? All the talk of being a hero, wanting to save others...you just want to make yourself feel better."

Alfred gritted his teeth, ignoring how the jibe sent a stab of pain to his heart. "At least I'm not a coward."

The Brit growled. "Do_ not _call me a coward."

"I'll call you anything I like! You're not just escaping from whatever past you had, you're _afraid_ of trusting me!"

"Yes, I'm afraid!" Arthur bellowed, his words piercing the stillness of the air. "For so many years I've been alone and then you show up, prancing into my life for all that's worth! OF COURSE I'D BE AFRAID! I'M SO AFRAID THAT I'M TERRIFIED!"

The silence that followed was deafening, punctuated only by the rain's pitter-patter on the ground. Arthur, realizing what he had just admitted, quickly turned away. Pale blond locks obscured his eyes, leaving only a clenched jaw for the American to see.

When Alfred spoke again, he sounded heartbroken. "Tell me the truth, Arthur. Please, tell me everything. I can't understand anything if you don't tell me, so...please..."

Why? _Why_ did Arthur refuse to trust him? He had saved Arthur from a swimming pool, made him hot chocolate, and dropped in all the time after that to make sure he was still alive! Sure, it had only been a few weeks, but still – the American wanted to be Arthur's _hero_, not get into arguments every single time! Why did it have to be so difficult?

"…You won't be able to handle it. The truth is ugly, Jones. When people see something they can't handle, they snap. They lose all sense of reality, falling into denial and hopelessness..."

"Don't underestimate me, Arthur." Alfred's voice was uncharacteristically serious. "I've seen my fair share of ugly truths, too."

"…Have you now?"

"Yeah, I have."

Arthur seemed to take this into deep consideration. He tilted his face towards the American, green eyes searching. Alfred met the gaze squarely, hoping he got his message through.

_Try me. _

"You really are an idiot," Arthur concluded with finality, ignoring the way Alfred protested at the insult. "If you were any wiser, you would distance yourself instead of coming closer. It'd be for your own good, and you'd be protected."

Alfred was truly lost now. He edged closer towards Arthur, ignoring the way said Brit tried to move away. "Protected from what?"

"From myself, of course."

The American's face morphed into sadness. "Artie…"

"It was my fault, really. Everything was my fault."

Alfred was unable to conceal the frustration in his voice. "Why would it be?"

"Because…" Arthur took a deep breath and looked into twin pools of blue. "_I_ was the one who killed my parents."

* * *

"Birdieeee? OI, BIRDIE!" Gilbert yelled, a plate of pancakes in his hands. Why wasn't Matthew responding? The awesome him had this specially prepared! "BIR – _ouch!_"

A snowy bear had crawled over to Gilbert, and was nipping at the German's ankle with a low growl in his throat. Gilbert looked at Kuma - Kuma _something_ numbly, suddenly realizing what the issue was. He bent down, patting the bear affectionately. "Sorry, 'fella, I forgot. We'll just go get your master, shall we?"

"You and your memory, Gilbert," Francis said disapprovingly, poking a head out of the kitchen. "If you ever hurt _mon petit_ Mathieu with that insensitivity of yours…"

The albino's protests were immediate. "Shut up, Franny-pants. Birdie's adorable – I like him. Hurting him is out of the question. I just...forgot. Hey, it's true!" Gilbert continued, seeing the disbelieving look on Francis' face. "I mean – he likes pancakes, so I made him some awesome pancakes. Nothing to complain about, right?"

"_Non,_ except that you couldn't have done it without my help."

"Doesn't matter. My pancakes turned out awesomer than yours anyways."

"_Oui, oui_ – says the one who asked for my assistance," Francis muttered tiredly. "I will have to think of another way to charm Mathieu…"

"Hey, I heard that! Is that a challenge to see who'd be able to get Birdie first?"

Francis raised a sceptical eyebrow. "I do not think Mathieu would be happy to hear about this 'challenge' you speak about, Gilbert – he is a person, not a piece of property to be owned. _Comprenez-vous_?"

"Shit, I didn't mean it that way. Birdie...he's...I'd never treat him that way," Gilbert said, shaking his head. "Ah, forget it. Let's just go to his room. I want him to taste these."

Matthew, whose wavy hair was pulled back into a small ponytail, was hunched in front of the desk. He twirled a pen around lazily, appearing to be deep in thought. Next to him was a stack of papers, a cup of orange juice, and an unzipped duffel bag filled to the brim with books.

Gilbert approached the Canadian, feeling his heart leap a little. It was easy to forget that his Birdie was…well, deaf. Matthew was hardworking, reliable – with brains that could rival Arthur's, if need be. However, unlike Arthur, Matthew was…gentle. He was a kind soul, always showing compassion for those around him. Even when put down by others around him, Matthew never flared up.

_Was it any wonder that Francis felt something for him too?_

"Hello. Are those pancakes?" Matthew asked. He turned around, smiling in amusement at the startled expressions of Gilbert and Francis. "What? Even though I can't hear the door opening, my nose can still detect the smell of pancakes a mile away."

Francis felt the corners of his mouth lift. "They're for you."

"Really?" Mauve eyes widened. "Thank you. Oh, there's maple syrup too – that's my favourite topping – but how did you know that?"

Gilbert coughed awkwardly. "It was on your…uh, student profile. You've been studying all day, so…"

"Ah," Matthew replied, nodding sagely. He took a mouthful of pancakes, chewing tentatively before breaking into a broad grin. It was a grin that seemed to resemble someone, though Gilbert and Francis weren't quite sure who. "This is wonderful! Thank you so much!"

"Anything for you, _mon cher_. What have you been working on?" Francis asked, fingers gently toying with the Canadian's ponytail.

If anything, Matthew's smile only grew. "Just on yesterday's lectures – I've been trying to get them into my head since morning."

Without warning, Gilbert abruptly lifted a heavy photo album from the shelf, pressing it onto the table between Francis and Matthew. "And this, Birdie, is how you'll be taking a break." He flipped the pages and said, "Here, enjoy some photos of the awesome me!"

Francis sighed heavily and placed his face in his hands. There were times where he wished he could shove the albino's head into a huge wine vat, and this was clearly one of them. Matthew, however, seemed to be genuinely interested. He took the leather-bound photo album into his hands, noting how thick it was.

"Were those from high school?"

"Yeah," Gilbert drawled lazily. "This one's our class photo. That's Franny – the one next to him's Ludwig, my bro. You haven't met him, but soon you will – tends to stay over at Feli's, which would be this one here. Oh, and that's Lovino, his twin. Don't get into an argument with him, you'll never win." The albino's finger moved to another part of the photo, pointing out more names and photos. "There's His Highness Arthur…" At this, Matthew chuckled. "…Kiku, Antonio….and yeah, that's me."

The Canadian observed the photo, curious in spite of himself. The high school Gilbert was smirking at the camera, tie undone on purpose. Francis was flashing a photogenic smile, blue eyes sparkling in mischief.

"Here's another one from our high school dance – this one's from our graduation." Gilbert was going through the photos at an increasing pace, leaving Matthew with less time to study them. "Oh, this section's more on Luddy – that's him repairing dad's car, him before an interview, him with his colleagues…"

Gilbert was prepared to turn the page, but Matthew's hand stopped him.

"Wait. This is…a photo of Ludwig and his colleagues, correct? What do they do?"

"Yeah, well, they work for the press." Gilbert laughed. "Not the most glamorous job in the world, but it works."

Matthew observed the photo closely, the smile vanishing from his face. The photograph was bright and glossy, every detail on it clear as day. The man that stood next to Ludwig was the one who had caught his attention – his blue eyes twinkled, the expression on his face carefree. There was a pair of glasses on his nose, and…there it was, that prominent cowlick sticking up from a mop of sandy-coloured hair. It was familiar - all _too_ familiar.

"Who is this?" Matthew asked, pointing.

"That's…" Gilbert struggled to come up with a name, but failed to do so. "What was his name again, Francis?"

"That American? Alfred…Jones, I believe."

Matthew stayed silent, his hand still resting on the photograph.

_What's going on?_ Gilbert mouthed to Francis.

Francis looked equally confused. _I have no idea!_

"Gilbert, Francis. Could I…ask something from you two?" There was a quaver in his voice, as if speaking any louder would make the Canadian burst into tears. "This man…Alfred Jones…"

"What about him?" Gilbert asked warily.

Matthew gave a wobbly smile.

"I want to meet him, please."

* * *

**Tried my best to make this error-free, but there's always something that slips through, so I apologize in advance. Some French translations: Non = No. Oui = Yes. Comprenez-vous = Do you understand? Mon cher = my dear. **

**Anyways, I quite like the idea of Matthew with a ponytail. :D It's...hot, so to say. **

**Please remember to review! **

**- Anne**


	10. Chapter 10

**I'm sorry this took so long, but here it is - the tenth chapter of Broken. Thanks for sticking with me, guys! All of you are fantastic!  
**

* * *

Sometimes people comforted themselves by believing in their own lies.

There was a fine line between what was true and what wasn't. Arthur knew how easy it was to blend both to create paradoxical truthful rumors - and how disgustingly easy it was to make others believe in them. Half-truths, half-lies. Lies. Truths - Arthur always believed in what he knew was the truth. He never doubted his perceptions – if it was the truth, then it _was_ the truth. Lies were for the pathetic who could not bear to stomach the truth and to Arthur, there was nothing more cowardly than that.

If he had killed his parents, then he_ had_ killed his parents. It was Arthur's darkest secret - while he had hid it away, there was never a moment where he didn't believe it.

_It had been his truth for years._

"You…" Alfred frowned, looking more confused than horrified. "You what?"

"I believe you heard me just fine, Jones. I was the one who killed my parents."

"But you couldn't have," Alfred said, sounding certain. "The fire was an accident. Everyone knew that. I mean, it was on the news and stuff."

Arthur snarled at the American, green eyes blazing with desperate anger. "That's because I wasn't even a suspect in the first place."

"How could anyone suspect you? You came out all covered in soot, looking so…"

"Do _not_ finish that sentence."

Alfred acquiesced, falling silent.

Arthur suppressed the shudder that ran through him. All of a sudden he was reliving the memories again, tasting ash and running through flames that were licking his ankles. He was shielding himself from the deadly heat, searching for Peter - he _knew_ his parents hadn't made it -

And all of a sudden Alfred was shaking him, looking concerned. "Dude, y'alright?"

"I…yes, I'm fine."

Alfred sat back, hands resting tentatively on Arthur's. Arthur liked the feeling of Alfred's hands – they were large and warm, enveloping his smaller ones perfectly. The Brit flushed and looked away – was the American even conscious of what he was doing? No, apparently not. Those blue eyes were wide and pleading, waiting for Arthur to continue.

Arthur knew it was now or never.

For fifteen minutes he spoke levelly, looking at anywhere but Alfred. He wasn't sure why he couldn't meet Alfred's eyes. It was as if the American held everything good in the world, and Arthur was afraid of changing that by burdening him with the filthiness he possessed. Arthur felt unclean, tainted - it was disgusting. He was nothing like Alfred, who radiated sunshine and happiness.

"Everything was becoming too much," Arthur said slowly. "I confess, my shell was beginning to crack. Everyone envied me - they thought I was the epitome of perfection. None of them knew what I felt inside. I loathed my brilliance, I loathed everyone who loved the way I shone. I especially loathed my parents. They didn't love their son - they loved his _achievements_."

Alfred nodded, giving Arthur's hand a reassuring squeeze.

"…I realized that if I wasn't happy with something, I could just destroy it," the Brit confessed bitterly. "And why not? I was a wreck. The insanity was building, and the anger that came with it made me…" Arthur paused, "…do things."

"Things?"

"Little things at first." Arthur smiled dreamily all of a sudden, reliving the memories. "Pins on the garage so that we would be late for social functions; ruining the garden whenever the Dukes came to visit...they were childish pranks that lads carried out, but it satisfied me for a little while. It gave me the chance to defy the hierarchy, to prove that I was alive and mocking the world for their ignorance."

Alfred blinked in surprise. "Where did you get these ideas from?"

"The Bad Touch Trio, of course. After putting up with their bloody tricks all the time, you'd think I would start utilizing some of them."

"The _what_?"

"Nevermind." Arthur shook his head, remembering that Alfred was never with him in high school. "What happened next was that…I wanted more. The sensation of destroying was addictive, and I became greedy. I wanted to do something deadly, something extreme that would frighten everyone."

Alfred felt a chill in his gut that had nothing to do with the rain. "Do you mean to say that…"

"Yes." Arthur's expression was unreadable. "I was the one who started the fire."

"But…just how exactly…there were _arson specialists_ there, Artie. If you started the fire, wouldn't they have known?"

Arthur smiled wanly at the American's innocence. Oh, poor, naïve Alfred. "Do you really think I would commit arson without prior research? I know how to make things look like an accident, Jones."

"You…you did it." Alfred seemed breathless, the realization sinking in.

"I did." Arthur's voice was filled with regret. "And it turned out to be the biggest mistake of my life."

* * *

_Arthur watched as the flames spread rapidly, unable to help the gleeful laugh that escaped his lips. Yes, this was what he wanted. He wanted to burn those despicable antique vases, gold-trimmed curtains and silver cutlery that mother appreciated, as well as his father's collection of first-editions. Those oil paintings of his ancestry could turn into crisps for all he cared – they would be rolling in their graves, but that didn't matter. Since his own parents were never proud of him, what would disgust from his dead forefathers do? _

_The fire continued to blaze, swallowing carpets, mahogany tables and shelves. Smoke appeared in grey clouds and Arthur stumbled backwards, coughing and choking at the acrid was when a thought hit him – how was he going to stop the fire? He had learned the ways of making the fire look like an accident, but there was nothing he knew about halting it when necessary.  
_

_Arthur's head snapped back up, for the first time realizing the magnitude of what was happening. Everything was being consumed by the inferno – nothing was going to be spared. If nothing was going to be spared, then that meant…_

_...No. _

_Oh, God. _

_What had he done? _

"_Mum, dad…" Arthur scrambled towards the door, ignoring the burning shelf that came painfully close to setting his clothes on fire. "Peter…Peter!" _

_The fire followed him as Arthur burst into his parents' room, expecting to see them frantic – but alive. _

_Only that they weren't._

_Arthur stared in horror at the lifeless bodies of his mother and father, at the burning debris that surrounded them. The room's wooden ceiling had collapsed, engulfing their owners with it. His mother's eyes were still wide with desperation, her skin red and raw. Next to her was his father, his mouth open in a silent scream.  
_

_No…this wasn't right. All Arthur wanted to do was to give everyone a little scare, that was all. This wasn't what he wanted. Arthur never wanted the blood of his parents on his hands. He slid down the door, still too stunned to accept what was happening. _

_He had murdered them. He had murdered his very own parents, and there was nothing else left but to allow the fire to kill him as well.  
_

_What about his little brother? Was Peter still alive? _

_Arthur used the last vestiges of his strength and forced himself to stand, ignoring the rush of vertigo that swam into his head. At this point, Arthur would do anything for his younger brother - even if that meant he would have to escape this fiery hell and live with his sins for the rest of his life._

* * *

"Sir, there's someone here to see you."

Ludwig looked up from his files wearily. Ever since he had been promoted to be one of the newspaper's editors, life had been incredibly busy. There were always people to see him - and by people, Ludwig meant all sorts. They ranged from the city's causal inhabitants to important men in suits - most of the time, they had a request.

"Does he have an appointment?"

"No," his young assistant, Eduardo said. "But he insists it's important."

"That's what they all say."

"True, sir."

Ludwig sighed heavily, removing his glasses and taking a sip of coffee. The boisterous American, Alfred, had introduced coffee to him - it had been helpful in keeping the fatigue at bay, leaving him to crave for more. Gilbert would have a fit if he ever found out – the albino was a diehard supporter of beer.

"Send him in."

"Right away, sir."

Eduardo returned a while later with a tall man by his side – Ludwig gave him a onceover, trying to assess the man's motivations before any words were spoken. With his auburn hair, sunglasses, cigarette and dark jacket, the man looked like he had stepped out the pages of a fashion magazine. _Regular citizen – student – working adult, perhaps? Fairly wealthy, perhaps leading an easygoing life –_

"You're an editor?" the man asked, removing his sunglasses and folding them with a light _click_. His eyes were jade green, framed with familiar-looking thick eyebrows.

"May I help you?" Ludwig questioned tersely in return.

"I hope so." At this, the man's confident voice seemed to falter. "You see, I'm looking for some people I haven't seen for a long time."

Ludwig fought to keep a neutral expression on his face. "Perhaps you should contact the police. We are reporters, not private investigators."

"No, no – that wasn't what I had in mind. Look, hear me out. I'm searching for Arthur and Peter Kirkland, the survivors of the Kirkland fire disaster." He scowled a little, as if the idea annoyed him more than anything else. "London's a huge place - contact numbers, emails - I have none of that at all. If I could have something reported on the tragedy's anniversary – which happens to be today, I might add – there's a chance they might read it and be able to contact me."

_Arthur Kirkland._ That name sent a jolt of recognition through Ludwig. "Why should I grant your request?"

"Because it will be in the public's best interest to remember what had ripped the Kirklands apart," the man stated bluntly. "If it suits you, view it rationally as newsworthy information instead of a stranger's request."

Ludwig considered this carefully from both angles, knowing what the man said was true. While he could easily find out where Arthur and his brother were staying at through Gilbert, that would be an invasion of privacy. However, if this was done meticulously, Ludwig knew he could help this man _and_ have a story. It was killing off two birds with one stone - there would be no harm in it.

"What is your name? How exactly are you related to the Kirklands?"

The man smirked triumphantly. "I'm Allistor. Allistor Kirkland. Relationship…well, I suppose you could call us long-lost cousins."

* * *

Alfred sat there, unable to say anything for a long time. He wasn't sure who was shivering – was it Arthur, or was it him? In the icy rain, he couldn't really tell.

"And that's that," Arthur said with finality. "Everything was my fault."

Some part of Alfred seemed to spring back into awareness. Cursing at himself for spacing out, the American growled out, "No, it wasn't. I admit those were some pretty bad decisions, but not everything's to be blamed on you."

Arthur looked up, his eyes filled with so much wild hope that it made Alfred's heart ache. Abruptly, he shook his head, dullness once again clouding his face.

"I've listened, and I know that you're not responsible for the whole fucking tragedy. You were hurt, you were angry - no one was there for you, so you did what you could to make people realize what you felt. You expressed yourself in the wrong way, that's all."

"And look what happened. Now I can't bring them back even if I tried."

"Arthur…" Alfred sighed heavily at Arthur's bitter tone. The hands he held were icy under his touch – Alfred took the initiative, tentatively slipping his fingers between Arthur's and feeling relieved when they weren't slapped away. It was probably his imagination, but Arthur seemed to be squeezing back. "People make mistakes all the time. Some just cost more than the rest and are…impossible to fix, y'know?"

"Have you ever made a mistake that you wish you could fix?" Arthur asked forlornly.

"Yeah."

"...Will you tell me about it?"

There was nothing but sincere curiosity in Arthur's voice. Alfred felt the wheels in his head turn, feeling a pang of worry hit his chest. Arthur had sacrificed a lot by telling Alfred his past, but was Alfred ready to do the same?

He swallowed thickly. That wasn't even a question. He could and he _would, _but now wasn't exactly the best time. "Yeah. I'll do that – but we should get out of the rain first. Wouldn't want you getting sick."

Arthur blinked, as if he had only realized that they had been sitting on a wet puddle for the past half hour. "I don't fall sick that easily."

"But it's _freezing_!"

Arthur chuckled. "That's how cold it gets here. I'm used to it."

"Y'know, our encounters always seem so…wet." Alfred pulled a face. "First you fall into a swimming pool, and now this."

"An astute observation," Arthur said drily.

"Where are we gonna bond next, eh? The sea?" Alfred teased, enjoying the way Arthur seemed to squirm uncomfortably under his gaze. He was enjoying seeing the Brit's embarrassed reactions more and more, although he wasn't sure why. "A bathtub, maybe?"

Pink dusted across Arthur's cheeks, seemingly even more obvious to Alfred since their faces were so close together. "Shut your trap, wanker." He huffed a bit and gave an awkward cough before mumbling something that sounded suspiciously like 'although that would be nice'.

"I heard that," Alfred said in a sing-song voice.

Arthur scrambled up, obviously embarrassed. The American laughed, feeling genuinely pleased.

_Perhaps he could truly be Arthur's hero._

* * *

**Review, maybe?**

**Might've been a bit careless in this chapter. Sorry for any inconsistencies/typos/grammar errors. **

**- Anne**


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